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Full text of "The cry for justice; an anthology of the literature of social protest; the writings of philosophers, poets, novelists, social reformers, and others who have voiced the struggle against social injustice, selected from twenty-five languages, covering a period of five thousand years"

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BOUGHT    WITH    THE    INCOME    OF   THE 

SAGE  ENDOWMENT  FUND 

THE    GIFT    OF 

HENRY  W.  SAGE 

1891 


Cornell  University  Library 


HNS  .S61 

The  cry  for    ustice: 


olin 


3   1924  032  495  883 


\B    Cornell  University 
B    Library 


The  original  of  tliis  book  is  in 
tine  Cornell  University  Library. 

There  are  no  known  copyright  restrictions  in 
the  United  States  on  the  use  of  the  text. 


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THE   HEA'^'Y   SEEDGE 

MAHOXRI    YlirXli 

{Aiiitricun  sculjilor.  horn  1S77) 


The  Cry  for  Justice 

An  Anthology  of  the  Literature 
of  Social  Protest 


THE    WRITINGS     OF     PHILOSOPHERS,    POETS,    NOVELISTS, 

SOCIAL    REFORMERS,    AND    OTHERS    WHO    HAVE 

VOICED    THE    STRUGGLE    AGAINST 

SOCIAL    INJUSTICE 

SELECTED  FROM  TWENTY-FIVE  LANGUAGES 
Covering  a  Period  of  Five  Thousand  Years 


Edited  by 

UPTON    SINCLAIR 

Author  of  '"Sylvia,"  "The  Jungle,"  Etc. 
With  an  Introduction  by 

JACK  LONDON 

Author  of  "The  Sea  Wolf."  "The  Callofthe  Wild." 
"The  Valley  of  the  Moon."  Etc..  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  REPRODUCTIONS 
OF  SOCIAL  PROTEST  IN  ART 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
The  John  C.  Winston  Co. 


Snttoliuction  bp  lacft  HonHon 

nPHIS  anthology,  I  take  it,  is  the  first  edition,  the  first 
•*•  gathering  together  of  the  body  of  the  Uterature  and 
art  of  the  humanist  thinkers  of  the  world.  As  well  done 
as  it  has  been  done,  it  will  be  better  done  in  the  future. 
There  will  be  much  adding,  there  will  be  a  little  subtract- 
ing, in  the  succeeding  editions  that  are  bound  to  come.  The 
result  will  be  a  monument  of  the  ages,  and  there  will  be 
none  fairer. 

Since  reading  of  the  Bible,  the  Koran,  and  the  Tahnud 
has  enabled  countless  devout  and  earnest  right-seeking 
souls  to  be  stirred  and  uplifted  to  higher  and  finer  planes 
of  thought  and  action,  then  the  reading  of  this  humanist 
Holy  Book  cannot  fail  similarly  to  serve  the  needs  of 
groping,  yearning  humans  who  seek  to  discern  truth  and 
justice  amid  the  dazzle  and  murk  of  the  thought-chaos 
of  the  present-day  world. 

No  person,  no  matter  how  soft  and  secluded  his  own  life 
has  been,  can  read  this  Holy  Book  and  not  be  aware  that 
the  world  is  filled  with  a  vast  mass  of  unfairness,  cruelty, 
and  suffering.  He  will  find  that  it  has  been  observed, 
during  all  the  ages,  by  the  thinkers,  the  seers,  the  poets,  and 
the  philosophers. 

And  such  person  will  learn,  possibly,  that  this  fair 
world  so  brutally  unfair,  is  not  decreed  by  the  will  of  God 
nor  by  any  iron  law  of  Nature.  He  will  learn  that  the 
world  can  be  fashioned  a  fair  world  indeed  by  the  humans 
who  inhabit  it,  by  the  very  simple,  and  yet  most  difficult 
process  of  coming  to  an  understanding  of  the  world. 
Understanding,  after  all,  is  merely  sympathy  in  its  fine 
correct  sense.  And  such  sympathy,  in  its  genuineness, 
makes   toward    unselfishness.      Unselfishness   inevitably 

(3) 


Introduction 


connotes  service.    And  service  is  the  solution  of  the  entire 
vexatious  problem  of  man. 

He,  who  by  understanding  becomes  converted  to  the 
gospel  of  service,  will  serve  truth  to  confute  liars  and 
make  of  them  truth-tellers;  will  serve  kindness  so  that 
brutality  will  perish;  will  serve  beauty  to  the  erasement 
of  all  that  is  not  beautiful.  And  he  who  is  strong  will  serve 
the  weak  that  they  may  become  strong.  He  will  devote 
his  strength,  not  to  the  debasement  and  defilement  of  his 
weaker  fellows,  but  to  the  making  of  opportunity  for  them 
to  make  themselves  into  men  rather  than  into  slaves  and 
beasts. 

One  has  but  to  read  the  names  of  the  men  and  women 
whose  words  burn  in  these  pages,  and  to  recall  that  by  far 
more  than  average  intelligence  have  they  won  to  their 
place  in  the  world's  eye  and  in  the  world's  brain  long  after 
the  dust  of  them  has  vanished,  to  realize  that  due  credence 
must  be  placed  in  their  report  of  the  world  herein  recorded. 
They  were  not  tyrants  and  wastrels,  hypocrites  and  liars, 
brewers  and  gamblers,  market-riggers  and  stock-brokers. 
They  were  givers  and  servers,  and  seers  and  humanists. 
They  were  unselfish.  They  conceived  of  life,  not  in 
terms  of  profit,  but  of  service. 

Life  tore  at  them  with  its  heart-break.  They  could  not 
escape  the  hurt  of  it  by  selfish  refuge  in  the  gluttonies  of 
brain  and  body.  They  saw,  and  steeled  themselves  to  see, 
clear-eyed  and  unafraid.  Nor  were  they  afflicted  by  some 
strange  myopia.  They  all  saw  the  same  thing.  They  are 
all  agreed  upon  what  they  saw.  The  totality  of  their 
evidence  proves  this  with  unswerving  consistency.  They 
have  brought  the  report,  these  commissioners  of  humanity. 
It  is  here  in  these  pages.    It  is  a  true  report. 

But  not  merely  have  they  reported  the  human  ills. 


Introduction 


They  have  proposed  the  remedy.  And  their  remedy  is  of 
no  part  of  all  the  jangling  sects.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  complicated  metaphysical  processes  by  which  one  may 
win  to  other  worlds  and  imagined  gains  beyond  the  sky. 
It  is  a  remedy  for  this  world,  since  worlds  must  be  taken 
one  at  a  time.  And  yet,  that  not  even  the  jangling  sects 
should  receive  hurt  by  the  making  fairer  of  this  world  for 
this  own  world's  sake,  it  is  well,  for  all  future  worlds  of 
them  that  need  future  worlds,  that  thfeir  splendor  be  not 
tarnished  by  the  vileness  and  ugliness  of  this  world. 

It  is  so  simple  a  remedy,  merely  service.  Not  one 
ignoble  thought  or  act  is  demanded  of  any  one  of  all  men 
and  women  in  the  world  to  make  fair  the  world.  The  call 
is  for  nobility  of  thinking,  nobility  of  doing.  The  call 
is  for  service,  and,  such  is  the  wholesomeness  of  it,  he  who 
serves  all,  best  serves  himself. 

Times  change,  and  men's  minds  with  them.  Down  the 
past,  civilizations  have  exposited  themselves  in  terms  of 
power,  of  world-power  or  of  other-world  power.  No 
civilization  has  yet  exposited  itself  in  terms  of  love-of-man. 
The  humanists  have  no  quarrel  with  the  previous  civiliza- 
tions. They  were  iiecessary  in  the  development  of  man. 
But  their  purpose  is  fulfilled,  and  they  may  well  pass, 
■leaving  man  to  build  the  new  and  higher  civilization  that 
will  exposit  itself  in  terms  of  love  and  service  and  brother- 
hood. 

To  see  gathered  here  together  this  great  body  of  human 
beauty  and  fineness  and  nobleness  is  to  realize  what 
glorious  humans  have  already  existed,  do  exist,  and  will 
continue  increasingly  to  exist  until  all  the  world  beautiful 
be  made  over  in  their  image.  We  know  how  gods  are 
made.     Comes  now  the  time  to  make  a  world. 


Honolulu,  March  6,  1915. 


)9c6nol])ktisment0 

The  editor  has  used  his  best  efforts  to  ascertain  what  material 
in  the  present  volume  is  protected  by  copyright.  In  all  such  cases 
he  has  obtained  the  permission  of  author  and  publisher  for  the  use 
of  the  material.  Such  permission  applies  only  to  the  present 
volume,  and  no  one  should  assume  the  right  to  make  any  other 
use  of  it  without  seeking  permission  in  turn.  If  there  has  been 
any  failure  upon  the  editor's  part  to  obtain  a  necessary  consent,  it 
is  due  solely  to  oversight,  and  he  trusts  that  it  may  be  overlooked. 
The  following  publishers  have  to  be  thanked  for  the  permissions 
which  they  have  kindly  granted;  the  thanks  applying  aJso  to  the 
authors  of  the  works. 

Mitchell  Kennerley 

Patrick  MacGiU,  "Songs  of  the  Dead  End."  Harry  Kemp, 
"The  Cry  of  Youth."  Charles  Hanson  Towne,  "Manhattan." 
Hjalmar  Bergstrom,  "Lynggaard  &  Co."  Donald  Lowrie,  "My 
Life  in  Prison."  John  G.  Neihardt,  "Cry  of  the  People."  Frank 
Harris,  "The  Bomb."  Vachel  Lindsay,  "The  Eagle  that  is  For- 
gotten" and  "To  the  United  States  Senate."  Frederik  van 
Eeden,  "The  Quest."  Edwin  Davies  Schoonmaker,  "Trinity 
Church."  Walter  Lippman,  "A  Preface  to  Politics."  L.  Andreyev, 
"Sawa."  J.  C.  Underwood,  "Processionals."  BUss  Carman, 
"The  Rough  Rider."  Percy  Adams  Hutchison,  "The  Swordless 
Christ." 

DOUBLEDAT,    PaGB    &   Co. 

Frank  Norris,  "The  Octopus."  Helen  Keller,  "Out  of  the 
Dark."  Frederik  van  Eeden,  "Happy  Humanity."  Bouck  White, 
"The  Call  of  the  Carpenter."  Alexander  Irvine,  "From  the  Bot- 
tom Up."  John  D.  Rockefeller,  "Random  Reminiscences."  G. 
Lowes  Dickinson,  "Letters  from  a  Chinese  Official."  Ben  B.  Lindsey 
and  Harvey  J.  O'Higgins,  "The  Beast."  Franklin  P.  Adams, 
"By  and  Large."  Edwin  Markham,  "The  Man  with  the  Hoe 
and  Other  Poems."  Gerald  Stanley  Lee,  "Crowds."  Woodrow 
Wilson,  "The  New  Freedom." 

(7) 


8  Acknowledgments 


Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

William  Vaughn  Moody,  "Poems."  Vida  D.  Scudder,  "Social 
Ideals."  Florence  Wilkinson  Evans,  "The  Ride  Home."  Peter 
Kropotkin,  "Mutual  Aid"  and  "Memoirs  of  a  Revolutionist." 
Helen  G.  Cone,  "Today."  T.  B.  Aldrich,  "Poems."  T.  W.  Hig- 
ginson,  "Poems." 

Charles  Scribneb's  Sons 

H.  G.  Wells,  "A  Modern  Utopia."  Bjornstjeme  Bjornson, 
"Beyond  Human  Power."  Edith  Wharton,  "The  House  of  Mirth." 
John  Galsworthy,  "A  Motley."  Maxim  Gorky,  "F6maGordyteff." 
J.  M.  Barrie,  "Farm  Laborers."     Walter  Wyckoff,  "The  Workers." 

The  Macmillan  Co. 

John  Masefield,  "Dauber"  and  "A  Consecration."  Jack  Lon- 
don, "The  People  of  the  Abyss"  and  "Revolution."  Robert  Her- 
rick,  "A  Life  for  a  Life."  Israel  Zangwil),  "  Children  of  the  Ghetto." 
Albert  Edwards,  "A  Man's  World"  and  "Comrade  Yetta."  Walter 
Rauschenbusch,  "Christianity  and  the  Social  Crisis."  Winston 
Churchill,  "The  Inside  of  the  Cup."  Rabindranath  Tagore,  "Git- 
anjali."  Thorstein  Veblen,  "The  Theory  of  the  Leisure  Class." 
Edward  Alsworth  Ross,  "Sin  and  Society."  W.  J.  Ghent,  "Social- 
ism and  Success."  Vachel  Lindsay,  "The  Congo."  Wilfrid  Wil- 
son Gibson,  "Fires."  Percy  Mackaye,  "The  Present  Hour." 
Robert  Hunter,  "Violence  and  the  Labor  Movement."  Ernest 
Poole,  "The  Harbor." 

The  Century  Co. 

Louis  Untermeyer,  "Challenge."  Richard  Whiteing,  "No.  5 
John  Street."  George  Carter,  "Ballade  of  Misery  and  Iron." 
James  Oppenheim,  "Songs  for  the  New  Age."  H.  G.  Wells,  "In 
the  Days  of  the  Comet."  Alex.  Irvine,  "My  Lady  of  the  Chimney 
Comer."    Edwin  Bjorkman,  "Dinner  h,  la  Tango." 

Small,  Maynabd  &  Co. 

Charlotte  P.  Oilman,  "In  this  Our  World"  and  "Women  and 
Economics."  Finley  P.  Dunne,  "Mr.  Dooley." 


Acknowledgments  9 

Brentano 

G.  Bernard  Shaw,  "Preface  to  Major  Barbara"  and  "The  Prob- 
lem Play."  Eugene  Brieux,  "The  Red  Robe."  W.  L.  George, 
"A  Bed  of  Roses." 

DUFFIELD   &    Co. 

Elsa  Barker,  "The  Frozen  Grail."    H.  G.  WeUs,  "Tono-Bungay." 

B.   W.    HUEBSCH 

James  Oppenheim,  "Pay  Envelopes."  Gerhart  Hauptmann, 
"The  Weavers."     Maxim  Gorky,  "Tales  of  Two  Countries." 

G.  P.  PtTTNAM  Sons 

Antonio  Fogazzaro,  "The  Saint."  J.  L.  Jaur§s,  "Studies  in 
Socialism." 

George  H.  Doban  Co. 

Will  Levington  Comfort,  "Midstream."  Charles  E.  Russell, 
"These  Shifting  Scenes." 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co. 

Robert    Tressall,     "The    Ragged  Trousered    Philanthropists." 

Wilhelm    Lamszus,     "The    Human  Slaughter     House."      Olive 

Schreiner,    "Woman    and    Labor."  Alfred    Noyes,    "The    Wine 
Press." 

McClurb  Publishing  Co. 

Dana  Burnet,  "A  Ballad  of  Dead  Girls."  Lincoln  Steffens, 
"The  Dying  Boss"  and  "The  Reluctant  Grafter." 

The  "Masses" 

John  Amid,  "The  Tail  of  the  World."  Dana  Burnet,  "Sisters 
of  the  Cross  of  Shame."  Carl  Sandburg,  "Buttons."  J.  E. 
Spingarn,  "Heloise  sans  Abelard."  Louis  Untermeyer,  "To  a 
Supreme  Court  Judge." 

James  Pott  &  Co. 
David  Graham  Phillips,  "The  Reign  of  Gilt." 


10  Acknowledgments 

Babse  &  Hopkins 
R.  W.  Service,  "The  SpeU  of  the  Yukon." 

Univbesitt  of  Chicago  Press 
August  Bebel,  "Memoirs." 

Charles  H.  Sbrgbl  Co. 
Verhaeren,  "The  Dawn:  Translation  by  Arthur  Symons." 

Albert  and  Charles  Boni 
Horace  Traubel,  "Chants  Communal." 

A.  C.  McClukg  &  Co. 
W.  E.  B.  du  Boia,  "The  Souls  of  Black  Folk." 

Mother  Earth  Publishing  Co. 

A.  Berkman,   "Prison  Memories  of  an  Anarchist."    Voltairine 
de  Cleyre,  "Works."    Emma  Goldman,  "Anarchism." 

Moffat,  Yard  &  Co. 
Reginald  Wright  Kauffman,  "The  House  of  Bondage." 

John  Lane 
Anatole  France,  "Penguin  Island."     William  Watson,  "Poems." 

Bobbs-Mbrrill  Co. 
Brand  Whitlock,  "The  Turn  of  the  Balance." 

E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 
Patrick  MacGill,  "Children  of  the  Dead  End." 

Charles  H.  Kerr  Co. 
"When  the  Leaves  Come  Out." 

Hillacre  Bookhouse 
Arturo  Giovannitti,  "The  Walker." 


Acknowledgments  11 

Henry  Holt  &  Co. 
Remain  RoUand,  "Jean-Chiistophe.'' 

Richard  G.  Badger  {Poet  Lore) 
Andreyev,  "King  Hunger."     Gorky,  "A  Night's  Lodging." 

Mrs.  Arthur  Upson 
Poems  by  Arthur  Upson. 

New  York  Times 
Elsa  Barker,  "Breshkovskaya." 

Collier's  Weekly 
Herman  Hagedorn,  "Fifth  Avenue,  1915." 

Poetry:   A  Magazine  of  Verse 
F.  Kiper  Frank,  "A  Girl  Strike  Leader." 

lAfe 
Max  Eastman,  "To  a  Bourgeois  Litterateur." 

Walter  Scott  Publishing  Co. 
(P.  P.  Simmons  Co.,  New  York) 

Joseph  Skipsey,  "Mother  Wept."  Jethro  Bithell's  translation  of 
Verhaeren  in  "Contemporary  Belgian  Poetry"  and  of  Dehmel  in 
"Contemporary  German  Poetry."  Rimbaud's  "Waifs  and 
Strays"  in  "Contemporary  French  Poetry." 

Elkin  Mathews  &  Co. 
William  H.  Davies,  "Songs  of  Joy." 

Constable  &  Co. 
Harold  Mom-o,  "Impressions." 

Duckworth  &  Co. 
Hilaire  Belloc,  "The  Rebel." 


W  Acknowledgments 

Swan,  Sonnenschein  &  Co. 
Edward  Carpenter,  "Towards  Democracy." 

Acknowledgments  have  also  to  be  made  to  the  following  artists, 
who  have  kindly  consented  to  have  their  works  used  in  the  volume : 
Mahonri  Young,  Wm.  Balfour  Ker,  Ryan  Walker,  Charles  A. 
Winter,  Abastenia  Eberle,  John  Mowbray-Clarke,  Isidore  Konti, 
Walter  Crane,  and  Will  Dyson.  Also  to  Life  Publishing  Co.  and 
the  New  Age,  London,  for  permission  to  use  a  drawing  from  their 
files. 


ConttntiS 

BOOK  PAGE 

I.    Toil 27 

II.    The  Chasm 73 

III.  The  Outcast 121 

IV.  Out  of  the  Depths 179 

V.     Revolt 227 

VI.    Martyedom 289 

VII.    Jesus 345 

VIII.     The  Chubch 383 

IX.    The  Voice  of  the  Ages. 431 

X.    Mammon 485 

XL    War 551 

XII.     Country 593 

XIII.  Children 637 

XIV.  Humor 679 

XV.    The  Poet 725 

XVI.     Socialism 783 

XVII.    The  New  Day 835 


(13)- 


JLitit  ot  ]iUu0ttatton0 

The  Heavy  Sledge,  Mahonri  Young Frontispiece 

PAGE 

The  Man  With  the  Hoe,  Jean  Frangois  Millet.  .  32' 

The  Vampire,  E.  M.  Lilien 62 

King  Canute,  William  Balfour  Ker 92 

The  Hand  of  Fate,  William  Balfour  Ker 116 

Without  a  Kennel,  Ryan  Walker  134 

The  White  Slave,  Abasienia  St.  Leger  Eberle 166 

Cold,  Roger  Bloche 196 

The  People  Mourn,  Jules  Pierre  van  Biesbroeck ....  212 

The  Liberatbess,  Theophile  Alexandre  Steinlen. . . .  238 

Outbreak,  Kathe  Kollwitz 262 

The  End,  Kathe  Kollwitz 294 

The  Surprise,  Ilyd  Efim/yvitch  Repin 318 

EccE  Homo,  Constantin  Meunier 348 

Despised  and  Rejected  of  Men,  Sigismund  Goetze  372 
"To  Sustain  the  Body  of  the  Church,  if  You 

Please,"  Denis  Auguste  Marie  Raffet 394 

Christ,  John  Mowbray-Clarke 420 

The  Despotic  Age,  Isidore  Konti 438 

"Courage,     Your    Majesty,     Only    One    Step 

More!" 464 

Marriage  a  la  Mode,  William  Hogarth 496  - 

Mammon,  George  Frederick  Watts 532 

War,  Arnold  Bocklin 570 

London,  Paul  Gustave  Dore 612 

A  Citizen  Lost,  Ryan  Walker 644 

"Oliver  Twist  Asks  for  MoRE,"Georfife  Cruikshank  656 

The  Coal  Famine,  Thomns  Theodor  Heine 680 

(15) 


16  .  List  of  Illustrations 

PAGE 

"My  Solicitor  Shall  Hear  op  This!".  Will  Dyson  710 

The  Militant,  Charles  A.  Winter 746 

The  Death  of  Chattehton,  Henry  Wallis 778 

"Once  Ye  Have  Seen  My  Face,  Ye  Dare  Not 

Mock" 806 

Justice,  Walter  Crane 838 

The  Triumph  of  Labor,  Walter  Crane 866 


(£D(t0t'0  ptefacr 

\1y /"HEN  the  idea  of  this  collection  was  first  thought  of, 

*  "  it  was  a  matter  of  surprise  that  the  task  should  have 
been  so  long  unattempted.  There  exist  small  collections 
of  Socialist  songs  for  singiag,  but  apparently  this  is  the 
first  effort  that  has  been  made  to  cover  the  whole  field 
of  the  literature  of  social  protest,  both  in  prose  and  poetry, 
and  from  all  languages  and  times. 

The  reader's  first  inquiry  will  be  as  to  the  qualifications 
of  the  editor.  Let  me  say  that  I  gave  nine  years  of  my  life 
to  a  study  of  literature  under  academic  guidance,  and  then, 
emerging  from  a  great  endowed  university,  discovered  the 
modern  movement  of  proletarian  revolt,  and  have  given 
fifteen  years  to  the  study  and  interpretation  of  that.  The 
present  volume  is  thus  a  blending  of  two  points  of  view. 
I  have  reread  the  favorites  of  my  youth,  choosing  from 
them  what  now  seemed  most  vital;  and  I  have  sought  to 
test  the  writers  of  my  own  time  by  the  touchstone  of  the 
old  standards. 

The  size  of  the  task  I  did  not  realize  until  I  had  gone  too 
far  to  retreat.  It  meant  not  merely  the  rereading  of  the 
classics  and  the  standard  anthologies;  it  meant  going 
through  a  small  library  of  volumes  by  living  writers,  the 
files  of  many  magazines,  and  a  dozen  or  more  scrap-books 
and  collections  of  fugitive  verse.  At  the  end  of  this  labor 
I  found  myself  with  a  pile  of  typewritten  manuscript  a 
foot  high;  and  the  task  of  elimination  was  the  most  diffi- 
cult of  all. 

To  a  certain  extent,  of  course,  the  selection  was  self- 
determined.  No  anthology  of  social  protest  could  omit 
a  (17) 


18  Preface 

"The  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  "The  Cry  of  the  Children," 
and  "A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That";  neither  could  it 
omit  the  "Marseillaise"  and  the  "Internationale." 
Equally  inevitable  were  selections  from  Shelley  and 
Swinburne,  Ruskin,  Carlyle  and  Morris,  Whitman,  Tol- 
stoy and  Zola.  The  same  was  true  of  Wells  and  Shaw 
and  Kropotkin,  Hauptmann  and  Maeterlinck,  Romain 
Rolland  and  Anatole  France.  When  it  came  to  the 
newer  writers,  I  sought  first  their  own  judgment  as  to 
their  best  work;  and  later  I  submitted  the  manuscript 
to  several  friends,  the  best  qualified  men  and  women  I 
knew.  Thus  the  final  version  was  the  product  of  a 
number  of  minds;  and  the  collection  may  be  said  to 
represent,  not  its  editor,  but  a  whole  movement,  made 
and  sustained  by  the  master-spirits  of  all  ages. 

For  this  reason  I  may  without  suspicion  of  egotism 
say  what  I  think  about  the  volume.  It  was  significant 
to  me  that  several  persons  reading  the  manuscript  and 
writing  quite  independently,  referred  to  it  as  "a  new 
Bible."  I  believe  that  it  is,  quite  literally  and  simply, 
what  the  old  Bible  was — a  selection  by  the  living  minds 
of  a  living  time  of  the  best  and  truest  writings  known  to 
them.  It  is  a  Bible  of  the  future,  a  Gospel  of  the  new 
hope  of  the  race.  It  is  a  book  for  the  apostles  of  a  new 
dispensation  to  carry  about  with  them;  a  book  to  cheer 
the  discouraged  and  console  the  wounded  in  humanity's 
last  war  of  liberation. 

The  standards  of  the  book  are  those  of  literature.  If 
there  has  been  any  letting  down,  it  has  been  in  the  case 
of  old  writings,  which  have  an  interest  apart  from  that  of 
style.  It  brings  us  a  thrill  of  wonder  to  find,  in  an 
ancient  Egyptian  parchment,  a  father  setting  forth  to 
his  son  how  easy  is  the  life  of  the  lawyer,  and  what  a 


Preface  19 

dog's  life  is  that  of  the  farmer.  It  amuses  us  to  read 
a  play,  produced  ia  Athens  two  thousand,  two  hundred 
and  twenty-three  years  ago,  in  which  is  elaborately  pro- 
pounded the  question  which  thousands  of  Socialist  "soap- 
boxers" are  answering  every  night:  "Who  will  do  the 
dirty  work?"  It  makes  us  shudder,  perhaps,  to  find 
a  Spaniard  of  the  thirteenth  century  analyzing  the  evil 
devices  of  tyrants,  and  expounding  in  detail  the  labor- 
policy  of  some  present-day  great  corporations  in  America. 

Let  me  add  that  I  have  not  considered  it  my  function 
to  act  as  censor  to  the  process  of  social  evolution.  Every 
aspect  of  the  revolutionary  movement  has  foimd  a  voice 
in  this  book.  Two  questions  have  been  asked  of  each 
writer:  Have  you  had  something  vital  to  say?  and  Have 
you  said  it  with  some  special  effectiveness?  The  reader 
will  find,  for  example,  one  or  two  of  the  hymns  of  the 
"Christian  Socialists";  he  will  also  find  one  of  the  par- 
odies on  Christian  hymns  which  are  sung  by  the  Industrial 
Workers  of  the  World  in  their  "jungles"  in  the  Far  West. 
The  Anarchists  and  the  apostles  of  insurrection  are  also 
represented;  and  if  some  of  the  things  seem  to  the  reader 
the  mere  unchaining  of  furies,  I  would  say,  let  him  not 
blame  the  faithful  anthologist,  let  him  not  blame  even 
the  writer — let  him  blame  himself,  who  has  acquiesced 
in  the  existence  of  conditions  which  have  driven  his 
fellow-men  to  the  extremes  of  madness  and  despair. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  work  I  have  placed  myself 
under  obhgation  to  so  many  people  that  it  would  take 
much  space  to  make  complete  acknowledgments.  I 
must  thank  those  friends  who  went  through  the  bulky 
manuscript,  and  gave  me  the  benefit  of  their  detailed 
criticism:  George  Sterling,  Max  Eastman,  Floyd  Dell, 
Clement  Wood,  Louis  Untermeyer,  and  my  wife.     I  am 


so  Preface 

under  obligation  to  a  number  of  people,  some  of  them 
strangers,  who  went  to  the  trouble  of  sending  me  scrap- 
books  which  represented  years  and  even  decades  of  col- 
lecting: Ehzabeth  Balch,  Elizabeth  Magie  PhiUips, 
Frank  B.  Norman,  Frank  Stuhlman,  J.  M.  Maddox, 
Edward  J.  O'Brien,  and  Clement  Wood.  Among  those 
who  helped  me  with  valuable  suggestions  were:  Edwin 
Bjorkman,  Reginald  Wright  Kauffman,  Thomas  Seltzer, 
Jack  London,  Rose  Pastor  Stokes,  May  Beals,  Elizabeth 
Freeman,  Arthur  W.  Calhoun,  Frank  Shay,  Alexander 
Berkman,  Joseph  F.  Gould,  Louis  Untermeyer,  Harold 
Monro,  Morris  Hillquit,  Peter  Kropotkin,  Dr.  James  P. 
Warbasse,  and  the  Baroness  von  Blomberg.  The  fullness 
of  the  section  devoted  to  ancient  writings  is  in  part  due  to 
the  advice  of  a  number  of  scholars:  Dr.  Paul  Carus,  Pro- 
fessor Crawford  H.  Toy,  Professor  William  Cranston  Law- 
ton,  Professor  Charles  Burton  Gulick,  Professor  Thomas 
D.  Goodell,  Professor  Walton  Brooks  McDaniels,  Rev. 
John  Haynes  Holmes,  Professor  George  F.  Moore,  Prof. 
Walter  Rauschenbusch,  and  Professor  Charles  R.  Lanman. 
With  regard  to  the  illustrations  in  the  volume,  I  en- 
deavored to  repeat  in  the  field  of  art  what  had  been  done 
in  the  field  of  literature:  to  obtain  the  best  material, 
both  old  and  new,  and  select  the  most  interesting  and 
vital.  I  have  to  record  my  indebtedness  to  a  num- 
ber of  friends  who  made  suggestions  in  this  field — Ryan 
Walker,  Art  Young,  John  Mowbray-Clarke,  Martin  Bim- 
baum,  Odon  Por,  and  Walter  Crane.  Also  I  must  thank 
Mr.  Frank  Weitenkampf  and  Dr.  Herman  Rosenthal  of 
the  New  York  Public  Library,  and  Dr.  Chfford  of  the 
Library  of  the  MetropoUtan  Museum  of  Art.  To  the 
artists  whose  copyrighted  work  I  have  used  I  owe  my 
thanks  for  their  permission:    as  likewise  to  the  many 


Preface  21 

writers  whose  copyrighted  books  I  have  quoted.  Else- 
where in  the  volume  I  have  made  acknowledgments  to 
publishers  for  the  rights  they  have  kindly  granted.  Let 
me  here  add  this  general  caution:  The  copyrighted  pas- 
sages used  have  been  used  by  permission,  and  any  one  who 
desires  to  reprint  them  must  obtain  similar  permission. 

One  or  two  himdred  contemporary  authors  responded 
to  my  invitation  and  sent  me  specimens  of  their  writings. 
Of  these  authors,  probably  three-fourths  will  not  find 
their  work  included — ^for  which  seeming  discourtesy  I  can 
only  offer  the  sincere  plea  of  the  limitations  of  space 
which  were  imposed  upon  me.  I  am  not  being  diplomatic, 
but  am  stating  a  fact  when  I  say  that  I  had  to  leave  out 
much  that  I  thought  was  of  excellent  quality. 

What  was  chosen  will  now  speak  for  itself.  Let  my  last 
word  be  of  the  hope,  which  has  been  with  me  constantly, 
that  the  book  may  be  to  others  what  it  has  been  to  me.  I 
have  spent  with  it  the  happiest  year  of  my  lifetime :  the 
happiest,  because  occupied  with  beauty  of  the  greatest  and 
truest  sort.  If  the  material  in  this  volume  means  to  you, 
the  reader,  what  it  has  meant  to  me,  you  will  live  with  it, 
love  it,  sometimes  weep  with  it,  many  times  pray  with  it, 
yearn  and  hunger  with  it,  and,  above  all,  resolve  with  it. 
You  will  carry  it  with  you  about  your  daily  tasks,  you  will 
be  utterly  possessed  by  it;  and  again  and  again  you  will  be 
led  to  dedicate  yourself  to  the  greatest  hope,  the  most 
wondrous  vision  which  has  ever  thrilled  the  soul  of  hiunan- 
ity.  In  this  spirit  and  to  this  end  the  book  is  offered  to 
you.  If  you  will  read  it  through  consecutively,  skipping 
nothing,  you  will  find  that  it  has  a  form.  You  will  be  led 
from  one  passage  to  the  next,  and  when  you  reach  the  end 
you  will  be  a  wiser,  a  humbler,  and  a  more  tender-hearted 
person. 


ja  Consecration 

By  John  Masefield 

NOT  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged 
charioteers 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap  the  fat  of  the  years, 
Rather  the  scorned — the  rejected — ^the  men  hemmed  in 
with  the  spears; 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 
Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din.  and  the  cries, 
The  men  with  the  broken  heads  and  the  blood  running  into 
their  eyes. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Conunander,  beloved  of  the  throne, 
Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown. 
But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known. 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the  road, 
The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with 

the  goad, 
The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load. 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout, 
The  chantyman  bent  atHhe  halliards  putting  a  tune  to 

the  shout. 
The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel  and  the  tired  lookout. 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the  mirth  i 
The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth; — 
Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  sciun  of  the 
earth! 

(23) 


2Ji.  A    Consecration 

Theirs  be  the  music,  the  color,  the  glory,  the  gold; 
Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 
Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and 
the  cold — 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tale  be  told. 

Amen. 


BOOK  I 

Toil 


The  dignity  and  tragedy  of  labor;  picttires  of  the  actual  condi- 
tions under  which  men  and  women  work  in  mills  and  factories, 
fields  and  mines. 


'^it  Q^an  mm  tit  ^oz* 

By  Edwin  Markham 

(This  poem,  which  was  written  after  seeing  Millet's  world-famous 
painting,  was  published  in  1899  by  a  California  school-principal, 
and  made  a  profound  impression.  It  has  been  hailed  as  "the 
battle-cry  of  the  next  thousand  years") 

T3  OWED  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
■'— '  Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face. 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 
Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 
Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 
Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 

Is  this  the  thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 

Is  this  the  dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  sims 

And  marked  their  ways  upon  the  ancient  deep? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this — 

More  tongued  with  censiu-e  of  the  world's  blind  greed — 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul — 

More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 


*-By  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

(27) 


S8  The    Cry   for    Justice 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim ! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 
Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 
Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 
Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 
Plimdered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 
Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 
A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands. 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortality; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies. 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes? 

0  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands. 
How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is — 
When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 


Toil  29 

Country  %iU 

{From  " The  Village") 

By  George  Crabbe 

(One  of  the  earliest  of  English  realistic  poets,  1754^1832;  called 
"The  Poet  of  the  Poor") 

OR  will  you  deem  them  amply  paid  in  health, 
Labor's  fair  child,  that  languishes  with  wealth? 
Go  then!  and  see  them  rising  with  the  sun, 
Through  a  long  course  of  daily  toil  to  run; 
See  them  beneath  the  dog-star's  raging  heat, 
When  the  knees  tremble  and  the  temples  beat; 
Behold  them,  leaning  on  their  scythes,  look  o'er 
The  labor  past,  and  toils  to  come  explore; 
See  them  alternate  suns  and  showers  engage, 
And  hoard  up  aches  and  anguish  for  their  age; 
Through  fens  and  marshy  moors  their  steps  pursue, 
Where  their  warm  pores  imbibe  the  evening  dew; 
Then  own  that  labor  may  as  fatal  be 
To  these  thy  slaves,  as  thine  excess  to  thee. 


Sin  ^pH  Eaborer 

By  Richard  Jefferies 
(English  essajdst  and  nature  student,  1848-1887) 

i  ("OR,  weeks  and  weeks  the  stark  black  oaks  stood 
■•-  straight  out  of  the  snow  as  masts  of  ships  with 
furled  sails  frozen  and  ice-bound  in  the  haven  of  the  deep 
valley.    Never  was  such  a  long  winter. 


30  The    Cry   for    Justice 

One  morning  a  laboring  man  came  to  the  door  with  a 
spade,  and  asked  if  he  could  dig  the  garden,  or  try  to,  at 
the  risk  of  breaking  the  tool  in  the  ground.  He  was 
starving;  he  had  had  no  work  for  six  months,  he  said, 
since  the  first  frost  started  the  winter.  Nature  and  the 
earth  and  the  gods  did  not  trouble  about  him,  you  see. 
Another  aged  man  came  once  a  week  regularly;  white  as 
the  snow  through  which  he  walked.  In  summer  he 
worked;  since  the  winter  began  he  had  had  no  employ- 
ment, but  supported  himself  by  going  round  to  the  farms 
in  rotation.  He  had  no  home  of  any  kind.  Why  did  he 
not  go  into  the  workhouse?  "I  be  af eared  if  I  goes  in 
there  they'll  put  me  with  the  rough  'uns,  and  very  likely 
I  should  get  some  of  my  clothes  stole."  Rather  than  go 
into  the  workhouse,  he  would  totter  round  in  the  face  of 
the  blasts  that  might  cover  his  weak  old  limbs  with  drift. 
There  was  a  sense  of  dignity  and  manhood  left  still;  his 
clothes  were  worn,  but  clean  and  decent;  he  was  no  com- 
panion of  rogues;  the  snow  and  frost,  the  straw  of  the 
outhouses,  was  better  than  that.  He  was  struggling 
against  age,  against  nature,  against  circiunstances;  the 
entire  weight  of  society,  law  and  order  pressed  upon  him 
to  force  him  to  lose  his  self-respect  and  liberty.  He 
would  rather  risk  his  life  in  the  snow-drift.  Nature, 
earth  and  the  gods  did  not  help  him;  sun  and  stars, 
where  were  they?  He  knocked  at  the  doors  of  the  farms 
and  found  good  in  man  only — not  in  Law  or  Order,  but 
in  individual  man  alone. 


Toil  31 

jFatm  %abovtt0 

By  James  Matthew  Baeeie 
(English  poet,  playwright  and  novelist,  born  1860) 

GRAND,  patient,  long-suffering  fellows  these  men 
were,  up  at  five,  summer  and  winter,  foddering  their 
horses,  maybe,  hours  before  there  would  be  food  for 
themselves,  miserably  paid,  housed  like  cattle,  and  when 
rheumatism  seized  them,  liable  to  be  flung  aside  Uke  a 
broken  graip.  As  hard  was  the  life  of  the  women:  coarse 
food,  chaif  beds,  damp  clothes  their  portion,  their  sweet- 
hearts in  the  service  of  masters  who  were  loath  to  fee  a 
married  man.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  that  these  lads  who 
could  be  faithful  unto  death  drank  soddenly  on  their 
one  free  day;  that  these  girls,  starved  of  opportunities 
for  womanliness,  of  which  they  could  make  as  much  as 
the  finest  lady,  sometimes  woke  after  a  holiday  to  wish 
that  they  might  wake  no  more? 


{From  "Sartor  Resartus") 

By  Thomas  Caelyle 

(One  of  the  most  famous  of  British  essayists,  1795-1881;   historian 

of  the  French  Revolution,  and  master  of  a  vivid  and 

picturesque  prose-style) 

T  T  is  not  because  of  his  toils  that  I  lament  for  the  poor: 
•'■  we  must  all  toil,  or  steal  (howsoever  we  name  our 
stealing),  which  is  worse;  no  faithful  workman  finds  his 
task  a  pastime.    The  poor  is  hungry  and  athirst;  but  for 


32  The    Cry   for    Justice 

him  also  there  is  food  and  drink:  he  is  heavy-laden  and 
weary;  but  for  him  also  the  Heavens  send  sleep,  and  of 
the  deepest;  in  his  smoky  cribs,  a  clear  dewy  haven  of 
rest  envelops  him,  and  fitful  glitterings  of  cloud-skirted 
dreams.  But  what  I  do  mourn  over  is,  that  the  lamp  of 
his  soul  should  go  out;  that  no  ray  of  heavenly,  or  even 
of  earthly,  knowledge  should  visit  him;  but  only,  in  the 
haggard  darkness,  like  two  spectres.  Fear  and  Indigna- 
tion bear  him  company.  Alas,  while  the  body  stands  so 
broad  and  brawny,  must  the  soul  lie  blinded,  dwarfed, 
stupefied,  almost  annihilated!  Alas,  was  this  too  a  Breath 
of  God;  bestowed  in  heaven,  but  on  earth  never  to  be 
unfolded! — That  there  should  one  Man  die  ignorant  who 
had  capacity  for  Knowledge,  this  I  call  a  tragedy,  were 
it  to  happen  more  than  twenty  times  in  the  minute,  as 
by  some  computations  it  does.  The  miserable  fraction  of 
Science  which  our  imited  Mankind,  in  a  wide  universe 
of  Nescience,  has  acquired,  why  is  not  this,  with  all  dili- 
gence, imparted  to  all? 


piapa  iDut 

{From  "Songs  of  the  Dead  End") 
By  Pateick  MacGill 

(A  young  Irishman,  called  the  "Navvy  poet";  born  1890.  From 
the  age  of  twelve  to  twenty  a  farm  laborer,  ditch-digger  and  quarry- 
man.  As  this  work  goes  to  press,  he  is  fighting  with  his  regiment  in 
Flanders) 

AS  a  bullock  falls  in  the  crooked  ruts,  he  fell  when  the 
^~*-     day  was  o'er. 

The  hunger  gripping  his  stinted  guts,  his  body  shaken 
and  sore. 


Ol 

■^ 

H 

K* 

■^ 

^ 

-Ij 

;^ 

^ 

^ — ' 

V, 

> 

Z 

w 
§ 


Toil  33 

They  pulled  it  out  of  the  ditch  ia  the  dark,  as  a  brute  is 

pulled  from  its  lair, 
The  corpse  of  the  navvy,  stiff  and  stark,  with  the  clay 

on  its  face  and  hair. 

In  Christian  lands,  with  calloused  hands,  he  labored  for 

others'  good. 
In  workshop  and  mill,  ditchway  and  drill,  earnest,  eager, 

and  rude; 
Unhappy  and  gaimt  with  worry  and  want,  a  food  to  the 

whims  of  fate, 
Hashing  it  out  and  booted  about  at  the  will  of  the  goodly 

and  great. 

To  him  was  applied  the  scorpion  lash,  for  him  the  gibe 

and  the  goad — 
The  roughcast  fool  of  our  moral  wash,  the  rugous  wretch 

of  the  road. 
Willing  to  crawl  for  a  pittance  small  to  the  swine  of  the 

tinsel  sty, 
Beggared  and  burst  from  the  very  first,  he  chooses  the  ditch 

to  die — 
.  .  .  Go,  pick  the  dead  from  the  sloughy  bed,  and  hide 

him  from  mortal  eye. 

He  tramped  through  the  colorless  winter  land,  or  swined 

in  the  scorching  heat, 
The  dry  skin  hacked  on  his  sapless  hands  or  blistering 

on  his  feet; 
He  wallowed  in  mire  unseen,  unknown,  where  your  houses 

of  pleasure  rise. 
And  hapless,  hungry,  and  chilled  to  the  bone,  he  builded 

the  edifice. 


34  The    Cry   for    Justice 

In  cheerless  model*  and  filthy  pub,  his  sinful  hours  were 

passed, 
Or  footsore,  weary,  he  begged  his  grub,  in  the  sough  of  the 

hail-whipped  blast. 
So  some  might  riot  in  wealth  and  ease,  with  food  and 

wine  be  crammed, 
He  wrought  like  a  mule,  in  muck  to  his  knees,  dirty. 

dissolute,  damned. 

Arrogant,  adipose,  you  sit  in  the  homes  he  builded  high; 

Dirty  the  ditch,  in  the  depths  of  it  he  chooses  a  spot  to  die, 

Foaming  with  nicotine-tainted  lips,  holding  his  aching 
breast, 

Dropping  down  like  a  cow  that  slips,  smitten  with  rinder- 
pest; 

Drivelling  yet  of  the  work  and  wet,  swearing  as  sinners 
swear. 

Raving  the  rule  of  the  gambling  school,  mixing  it  up  with 
a  prayer. 

He  lived  like  a  brute  as  the  navvies  live,  and  went  as  the 

cattle  go. 
No  one  to  sorrow  and  no  one  to  shrive,  for  heaven  ordained 

it  so — 
He  handed  his  check  to  the  shadow  in  black,  and  went  to 

the  misty  lands. 
Never  a  mortal  to  close  his  eyes  or  a  woman  to  cross  his 

hands. 

As  a  bullock  falls  in  the  rugged  ruts 

He  fell  when  the  day  was  o'er, 
Hunger  gripping  his  weasened  guts, 

But  never  to  hunger  more— 


*  A  "model"  is  an  English  resort  for  wayfarers,  maintained  by  charity. 


Toil  35 

They  'pulled  it  out  of  the  ditch  in  the  dark, 

The  chilling  frost  on  its  hair, 
The  mole-skinned  navvy  stiff  and  stark 

From  no  particular  where. 


IBtOuntring  tit  l^otn* 

{From  "Dauber") 
By  John  Masefield 

(An  English  poet  who  has  had  a  varied  career  as  sailor,  laborer  and 
even  bartender  upon  the  Bowery,  New  York.  Born  1873,  his 
narrative  poems  of  humble  life  made  him  famous  almost  over  night) 

T^HEN  came  the  cry  of  "Call  all  hands  on  deck!" 

-•-    The  Dauber  knew  its  meaning;  it  was  come: 
Cape  Horn,  that  tramples  beauty  into  wreck, 
And  crmnples  steel  and  smites  the  strong  man  dumb. 
Down  clattered  flying  kites  and  staysails:  some 
Sang  out  in  quick,  high  calls:  the  fair-leads  skirled, 
And  from  the  south-west  came  the  end  of  the  world  .  .  . 

"Layout!"  the  Bosun  yelled.     The  Dauber  laid 

Out  on  the  yard,  gripping  the  yard,  and  feeling 

Sick  at  the  mighty  space  of  air  displayed 

Below  his  feet,  where  mewing  birds  were  wheeling. 

A  giddy  fear  was  on  him;  he  was  reeling. 

He  bit  his  lip  half  through,  clutching  the  jack. 

A  cold  sweat  glued  the  shirt  upon  his  back. 


*  By  permissiocL  of  the  Macinillan  Co. 


36  The    Cry   for    Justice 

The  yard  was  shaking,  for  a  brace  was  loose. 
He  felt  that  he  would  fall;  he  clutched,  he  bent, 
Clammy  with  natural  terror  to  the  shoes 
While  idiotic  promptings  came  and  went. 
Snow  fluttered  on  a  wind-flaw  and  was  spent; 
He  saw  the  water  darken.     Someone  yelled, 
"Frap  it;  don't  stay  to  furl!    Hold  on!"     He  held. 

Darkness  came  down — half  darkness — in  a  whirl; 
The  sky  went  out,  the  waters  disappeared. 
He  felt  a  shocking  pressure  of  blowing  hurl 
The  ship  upon  her  side.     The  darkness  speared 
At  her  with  wind;  she  staggered,  she  careered. 
Then  down  she  lay.     The  Dauber  felt  her  go; 
He  saw  her  yard  tilt  downwards.     Then  the  snow 


Whirled  all  about — dense,  multitudinous,  cold — 
Mixed  with  the  wind's  one  devilish  thrust  and  shriek, 
Which  whifHed  out  men's  tears,  defeated,  took  hold. 
Flattening  the  flying  drift  against  the  cheek. 
The  yards  buckled  and  bent,  man  could  not  speak. 
The  ship  lay  on  her  broadside;  the  wind's  sound 
Had  devilish  malice  at  having  got  her  downed.  .  .  . 


How  long  the  gale  had  blown  he  could  not  tell. 
Only  the  world  had  changed,  his  life  had  died. 
A  moment  now  was  everlasting  hell. 
Nature  an  onslaught  from  the  weather  side, 
A  withering  rush  of  death,  a  frost  that  cried, 
Shrieked,  till  he  withered  at  the  heart;  a  hail 
Plastered  his  oilskins  with  an  icy  mail.  .  .  . 


Toil  37 

"Up!"  yelled  the  Bosun;  "up  and  clear  the  wreck!" 

The  Dauber  followed  where  he  led;  below 

He  caught  one  giddy  glimpsing  of  the  deck 

Filled  with  white  water,  as  though  heaped  with  snow. 

He  saw  the  streamers  of  the  rigging  blow 

Straight  out  like  pennons  from  the  splintered  mast, 

Then,  all  sense  dimmed,  all  was  an  icy  blast 

Roaring  from  nether  hell  and  filled  with  ice, 
Roaring  and  crashing  on  the  jerking  stage, 
An  utter  bridle  given  to  utter  vice, 
limitless  power  mad  with  endless  rage 
Withering  the  soul;  a  minute  seemed  an  age. 
He  clutched  and  hacked  at  ropes,  at  rags  of  sail, 
Thinking  that  comfort  was  a  fairy-tale 

Told  long  ago — long,  long  ago — long  since 
Heard  of  in  other  lives — imagined,  dreamed — 
There  where  the  basest  beggar  was  a  prince. 
To  him  in  torment  where  the  tempest  screamed, 
Comfort  and  warmth  and  ease  no  longer  seemed 
Things  that  a  man  could  know;  soul,  body,  brain. 
Knew  nothing  but  the  wind,  the  cold,  the  pain. 


3n&oummt  in  fetotm 

{From  "  The  Cry  of  Youth") 

By  Harry  Kemp 

(A  young  American  poet  who  has  wandered  over  the  world  as 
sailor,  harvest  hand  and  tramp;   born  1883) 

DEEP  in  an  ore-boat's  hold 
Where  great-bulked  boilers  loom 
And  yawning  mouths  of  fire 
Irradiate  the  gloom, 


38  The    Cry   for    Justice 

I  saw  half-naked  men 

Made  thralls  to  flame  and  steam, 

Whose  bodies,  dripping  sweat. 
Shone  with  an  oily  gleam. 

There,  all  the  sullen  night. 

While  waves  boomed  overhead 

And  smote  the  lurching  ship, 
The  ravenous  fires  they  fed; 

They  did  not  think  it  brave: 

They  even  dared  to  joke! 
I  saw  them  light  their  pipes 

And  puff  calm  rings  of  smoke! 

I  saw  a  Passer  sprawl 

Over  his  load  of  coal — 
At  which  a  Fireman  laughed 

Until  it  shook  his  soul : 

All  this  in  a  hollow  shell 

Whose  half-submerged  form 
On  Lake  Superior  tossed 

'Mid  rushing  hills  of  storm! 


From  the  Sailors'  Catechism 

Six  days  shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all  thou  art  able. 
The  seventh,  holystone  the  deck  and  scrub  the  cable. 


Toil  39 

&tOfeCC0* 

{From  "The  Harbor") 

By  Ernest  Poole 
(American  playwright  and  novelist,  bom  1880) 

AT  T^E  crawled  down  a  short  ladder  and  through  low 
'  *     passageways,  dripping  wet,  and  so  came  into  the 
stokehole. 

This  was  a  long  narrow  chamber  with  a  row  of  glowing 
furnace  doors.  Wet  coal  and  coal-dust  lay  on  the  floor. 
At  either  end  a  small  steel  door  opened  into  bimkers  that 
ran  along  the  sides  of  the  ship,  deep  down  near  the  bottom, 
containing  thousands  of  tons  of  soft  coal.  In  the  stoke- 
hole the  fires  were  not  yet  up,  but  by  the  time  the  ship  was 
at  sea  the  furnace  mouths  would  be  white  hot  and  the  men 
at  work  half  naked.  They  not  only  shovelled  coal  into 
the  flames,  they  had  to  spread  it  as  well,  and  at  intervals 
rake  out  the  "clinkers"  in  fiery  masses  on  the  floor. 
On  these  a  stream  of  water  played,  filling  the  chamber 
with  clouds  of  steam.  In  older  ships,  like  this  one,  a  "lead 
stoker"  stood  at  the  head  of  the  line  and  set  the  pace  for 
the  others  to  follow.  He  was  paid  more  to  keep  up  the 
pace.  But  on  the  big  new  liners  this  pacer  was  replaced 
by  a  gong. 

"And  at  each  stroke  of  the  gong  you  shovel,"  said 
Joe.  "You  do  this  till  you  forget  your  name.  Every 
time  the  boat  pitches  the  floor  heaves  you  forward,  the 
fire  spurts  at  you  out  of  the  doors,  and  the  gong  keeps 
on  like  a  sledge-hanuner  coming  down  on  top  of  your 
mind.  And  all  you  think  of  is  your  bimk  and  the  time 
when  you're  to  tumble  in." 

*  By  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Co. 


Jfi  The    Cry   for    Justice 

From  the  stokers'  quarters  presently  there  came  a  burst 
of  singing. 

"Now  let's  go  back,"  he  ended,  "and  see  how  they're 
getting  ready  for  this." 

As  we  crawled  back,  the  noise  increased,  and  swelled 
to  a  roar  as  we  entered.  The  place  was  pandemonium. 
Those  groups  I  had  noticed  around  the  bags  had  been 
getting  out  the  liquor,  and  now  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  half  the  crew  were  already  well  soused.  Some 
moved  restlessly  about.  One  huge  bull  of  a  creature  with 
limpid  shining  eyes  stopped  suddenly  with  a  puzzled 
stare,  and  then  leaned  back  on  a  bunk  and  laughed  up- 
roariously. From  there  he  lurched  over  the  shoulder 
of  a  thin,  wiry,  sober  man  who,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a 
bunk,  was  slowly  spelling  out  the  words  of  a  newspaper 
aeroplane  story.  The  big  man  laughed  again  and  spit, 
and  the  thin  man  jimiped  half  up  and  snarled. 

Louder  rose  the  singing.  Half  the  crew  was  crowded 
close  around  a  little  red-faced  cockney.  He  was  the 
modern  "chanty  man."  With  sweat  pouring  down  his 
cheeks  and  the  muscles  of  his  neck  drawn  taut,  he  was 
jerking  out  verse  after  verse  about  women.  He  sang  to 
an  old  "chanty"  tune,  one  that  I  remembered  well. 
But  he  was  not  singing  out  under  the  stars,  he  was  scream- 
ing at  steel  walls  down  here  in  the  bottom  of  the  ship. 
And  although  he  kept  speeding  up  his  song,  the  crowd 
were  too  drunk  to  wait  for  the  chorus;  their  voices  kept 
tumbling  in  over  his,  and  soon  it  was  only  a  frenzy  of 
sound,  a  roar  with  yells  rising  out  of  it.  The  singers 
kept  pounding  each  other's  backs  or  waving  bottles  over 
their  heads.  Two  bottles  smashed  together  and  brought 
a  still  higher  burst  of  glee. 

" I'm  tired !"    Joe  shouted.     " Let's  get  out!" 


Toil  41 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  strained  frowning  face.  Again 
it  came  over  me  in  a  flash,  the  years  he  had  spent  in  holes 
hke  this,  in  this  hideous  rotten  world  of  his,  while  I  had 
lived  joyously  in  mine.  And  as  though  he  had  read  the 
thought  in  my  disturbed  and  troubled  eyes,  "Let's  go 
up  where  you  belong,"  he  said. 

I  followed  him  up  and  away  from  his  friends.  As  we 
climbed  ladder  after  ladder,  fainter  and  fainter  on  our 
ears  rose  that  yelling  from  below.  Suddenly  we  came  out 
on  deck  and  slammed  an  iron  door  behind  us.  And  I 
was  where  I  belonged. 

I  was  in  dazzling  simshine  and  keen,  frosty  autumn 
air.  I  was  among  gay  throngs  of  people.  Dainty  women 
brushed  me  by.  I  felt  the  softness  of  their  furs,  I  breathed 
the  fragrant  scent  of  them  and  of  the  flowers  that  they 
wore,  I  saw  their  trim,  fresh,  immaculate  clothes.  I 
heard  the  joyous  tumult  of  their  talking  and  their  laugh- 
ing to  the  regular  crash  of  the  band — all  the  life  of  the 
ship  I  had  known  so  well. 

And  I  walked  through  it  all  as  though  in  a  dream. 
On  the  dock  I  watched  it  spell-bound — imtil  with  hand- 
kerchiefs waving  and  voices  calling  down  good-byes,  that 
throng  of  happy  travellers  moved  slowly  out  into  mid- 
stream. 

And  I  knew  that  deep  below  all  this,  down  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  ship,  the  stokers  were  still  singing. 


^2  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Caliban  in  X\z  Coal  ^iut^ 

{Fro7n  " Challenge") 

By  Louis  Untermeyer 

(American  poet,  born  1885) 

/'"^OD,  we  don't  like  to  complain — 
^^      We  know  that  the  mine  is  no  lark — 
But — there's  the  pools  from  the  rain; 
But — there's  the  cold  and  the  dark. 

God,  You  don't  know  what  it  is — ■ 

You,  in  Your  well-lighted  sky, 
Watching  the  meteors  whizz ; 

Warm,  with  the  sim  always  by. 

God,  if  You  had  but  the  moon 

Stuck  in  Yom-  cap  for  a  lamp, 
Even  You'd  tire  of  it  soon, 

Down  in  the  dark  and  the  damp. 

Nothing  but  blackness  above, 
And  nothing  that  moves  but  the  cars — 

God,  if  You  wish  for  our  love. 
Fling  us  a  handful  of  stars! 


To.il  43 

lilt  jF^rtrtijtt  9?an 

{From  "  The  Jwngle") 
By  Upton  Sinclair 

(A  novel  portraying  the  lives  of  the  workers  in  the  Chicago 
stockyards;  published  in  1906) 

T TIS  labor  took  him  about  one  minute  to  learn.    Before 

^  -»•  him  was  one  of  the  Vents  of  the  mill  in  which  the 
fertilizer  was  being  gr^toid — rushing  forth  in  a  great 
brown  river,  with  a  ^ay  of  the  finest  dust  floating  forth 
in  clouds.  Jurgis^as  given  a  shovel,  and  along  with 
half  a  dozen  others  it  was  his  task  to  shovel  this  fer- 
tilizer into  carts.  That  others  were  at  work  he  knew 
by  the  sound,  and  by  the  fact  that  he  sometimes  collided 
with  them;  otherwise  they  might  as  well  not  have  been 
there,  for  in  the  blinding  dust-storm  a  man  could  not  see 
six  feet  in  front  of  his  face.  When  he  had  filled  one  cart 
he  had  to  grope  around  him  until  another  came,  and  if 
there  was  none  on  hand  he  continued  to  grope  till  one 
arrived.  In  five  minutes  he  was,  of  course,  a  mass  of 
fertilizer  from  head  to  feet;  they  gave  him  a. sponge  to 
tie  over  his  mouth,  so  that  he  could  breathe,  but  the 
sponge  did  not  prevent  his  lips  and  eyelids  from  caking 
up  with  it  and  his  ears  from  filling  solid.  He  looked  like 
a  brown  ghost  at  twilight— from  hair  to  shoes  be  became 
the  color  of  the  building  and  of  everything  in  it,  and  for 
that  matter  a  hundred  yards  outside  it.  The  building 
had  to  be  left  open,  and  when  the  wind  blew  Durham 
and  Company  lost  a  great  deal  of  fertilizer. 

Working  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  with  the  thermometer 
at  over  a  hundred,  the  phosphates  soaked  in  through 
every  pore  of  Jurgis'  skin,  and  in  five  minutes  he  had  a 


I^.I^.  The    Cry   jor    Justice 

headache,  and  in  fifteen  was  almost  dazed.  The  blood 
was  poimding  in  his  brain  like  an  engine's  throbbing; 
there  was  a  frightful  pain  in  the  top  of  his  skull,  and  he 
could  hardly  control  his  hands.  Still,  with  the  memory 
of  his  four  jobless  months  behind  him,  he  fought  on,  in  a 
frenzy  of  determination;  and  half  an  hour  later  he  began 
to  vomit-^he  vomited  until  it  seemed  as  if  his  inwards 
must  be  torn  into  shreds.  A  man  could  get  used  to  the 
fertilizer-mill,  the  boss  had  said,  if  he  would  only  make 
up  his  mind  to  it;  but  Jurgis  now  began  to  see  that  it 
was  a  question  of  making  up  his  stomach. 

At  the  end  of  that  day  of  horror,  he  could  scarcely  stand. 
He  had  to  catch  himself  now  and  then,  and  lean  against 
a  building  and  get  his  bearings.  Most  of  the  men,  when 
they  came  out,  made  straight  for  a  saloon — they  seemed 
to  place  fertilizer  and  rattlesnake  poison  in  one  class. 
But  Jurgis  was  too  ill  to  think  of  drinking — he  could 
only  make  his  way  to  the  street  and  stagger  on  to  a  car. 
He  had  a  sense  of  humor,  and  later  on,  when  he  became 
an  old  hand,  he  used  to  think  it  fun  to  board  a  street-car 
and  see  what  happened.  Now,  however,  he  was  too  ill 
to  notice  it — how  the  people  in  the  car  began  to  gasp 
and  sputter,  to  put  their  handkerchiefs  to  their  noses, 
and  transfix  him  with  furious  glances.  Jurgis  only  knew 
that  a  man  in  front  of  him  immediately  got  up  and  gave 
him  a  seat;  and  that  half  a  minute  later  the  two  people 
on  each  side  of  him  got  up;  and  that  in  a  full  minute  the 
crowded  car  was  nearly  empty — those  passengers  who 
could  not  get  room  on  the  platform  having  gotten  out 
to  walk. 

Of  course  Jurgis  had  made  his  home  a  miniature  fer- 
tilizer-mill a  minute  after  entering.  The  stuff  was  half 
an  inch  deep  in  his  skin — his  whole  system  was  full  of  it, 


Toil  45 

and  it  would  have  taken  a  week  not  merely  of  scrubbing, 
but  of  vigorous  exercise,  to  get  it  out  of  him.  As  it  was, 
he  could  be  compared  with  nothing  known  to  man,  save 
that  newest  discovery  of  the  savants,  a  substance  which 
emits  energy  for  an  unlimited  time,  without  being  itself 
in  the  least  diminished  in  power.  He  smelt  so  that  he 
made  all  the  food  at  the  table  taste,  and  set  the  whole 
family  to  vomiting;  for  himself  it  was  three  days  before 
he  could  keep  anything  upon  his  stomach — he  might 
wash  his  hands,  and  use  a  knife  and  fork,  but  were  not 
his  mouth  and  throat  filled  with  the  poison? 

And  still  Jurgis  stuck  it  out!  In  spite  of  sphtting  head- 
aches he  would  stagger  down  to  the  plant  and  take  up 
his  stand  once  more,  and  begin  to  shovel  in  the  blinding 
clouds  of  dust.  And  so  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  was  a 
fertilizer-man  for  life — he  was  able  to  eat  again,  and  though 
his  head  never  stopped  aching,  it  ceased  to  be  so  bad 
that  he  could  not  work. 


^itt0bttts^ 

By  James  Oppenheim 
(American  poet  and  novelist;  bom  1882) 

OVER  his  face  his  gray  hair  drifting  hides  his  Labor- 
glory  in  smoke. 
Strange  through  his  breath  the  soot  is  sifting,  his  feet  are 

buried  in  coal  and  coke. 
By  night  hands  twisted  and  lurid  in  fires,  by  day  hands 

blackened  with  grime  and  oil. 
He  toils  at  the  foundries  and  never  tires,  and  ever  and 
ever  his  lot  is  toil. 


46  The    Cry   for    Justice 

He  speeds  his  soul  till  his  body  wrestles  with  terrible 

tonnage  and  terrible  time, 
Out  through  the  yards  and  over  the  trestles  the  flat-cars 

clank  and  the  engines  chime, 
His  mills  through  windows  seem  eaten  with  fire,  his  high 

cranes  travel,  his  ingots  roll. 
And  billet  and  wheel  and  whistle  and  wire  shriek  with  the 

speeding  up  of  his  soul. 

Lanterns  with  reds  and  greens  a-glisten  wave  the  way 

and  the  head-light  glares. 
The  back-bent  laborers  glance  and  listen  and  out  through 

the  night  the  tail-light  flares — 
Deep  in  the  mills  like  a  tipping  cradle  the  huge  converter 

turns  on  its  wheel 
And  sizzling  spills  in  the  ten-ton  ladle  a  golden  water  of 

molten  steel. 

Yet  screwed  with  toil  his  low  face  searches  shadow-edged 
fires  and  whited  pits, 

Gripping  his  levers  his  body  lurches,  grappling  his  irons 
he  prods  and  hits. 

And  deaf  with  the  roll  and  clangor  and  rattle  with  its 
sharp  escaping  staccato  of  steam, 

And  blind  with  flame  and  worn  with  battle,  into  his  ton- 
nage he  turns  his  dream. 

The  world  he  has  builded  rises  aroimd  us,  our  wonder- 
cities  and  weaving  rails, 

Over  his  wires  a  marvel  has  found  us,  a  giory  rides  in  our 
wheeled  mails, 

For  the  Earth  grows  small  with  strong  Steel  woven,  and 
they  come  together  who  plotted  apart — 

But  he  who  has  wrought  this  thing  in  his  oven  knows  only 
toil  and  the  tired  heart. 


Toil  JiT 

{From  "Children  of  the  Dead  End") 
By  Pateick  MacGiIjL 

(See  page  32) 

At  that  time  there  were  thousands  of  navvies  working 
■^*-  at  Kinlochleven  waterworks.  We  spoke  of  water- 
works, but  only  the  contractors  knew  what  the  work  was 
intended  for.  We  did  not  know,  and  we  did  not  care. 
We  never  asked  questioris  concerning  the  ultimate  issue 
of  our  labors,  and  we  were  not  supposed  to  ask  questions. 
If  a  man  throws  red  muck  over  a  wall  today  and  throws 
it  back  again  tomorrow,  what  the  devil  is  it  to  him  if  he 
keeps  throwing  that  same  muck  over  the  wall  for  the  rest 
of  his  life,  knowing  not  why  nor  wherefore,  provided  he 
gets  paid  sixpence  an  hour  for  his  labor?  There  were 
so  many  tons  of  earth  to  be  lifted  and  thrown  somewhere 
else;  we  lifted  them  and,  threw  them  somewhere  else; 
so  many  cubic  yards  of  iron-hard  rocks  to  be  blasted  and 
carried  away;  we  blasted  and  carried  them  away,  but 
never  asked  questions  and  never  knew  what  results  we 
were  laboring  to  bring  about.  We  turned  the  High- 
lands into  a  cinder-heap,  and  were  as  wise  at  the  begin- 
ning as  at  the  end  of  the  task.  Only  when  we  completed 
the  job,  and  retmned  to  the  town,  did  we  learn  from  the 
newspapers  that  we  had  been  employed  on  the  con- 
struction of  the  biggest  aluminium  factory  in  the  king- 
dom. All  that  we  knew  was  that  we  had  gutted  whole 
mountains  and  hills  in  the  operations.  .  .  . 

Above  and  over  all,  the  mystery  of  the  night  and  the 


*  By  permission  of  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 


48  The    Cry   for    Justice 

desert  places  hovered  inscrutable  and  implacable.  All 
around  the  ancient  mountains  sat  like  brooding  witches, 
dreaming  on  their  own  story  of  which  they  knew  neither 
the  beginning  nor  the  end.  Naked  to  the  four  winds  of 
heaven  and  all  the  rains  of  the  world,  they  had  stood 
there  for  countless  ages  in  all  their  sinister  strength, 
undefied  and  unconquered,  until  man,  with  puny  hands 
and  little  tools  of  labor,  came  to  break  the  spirit  of  their 
ancient  mightiness. 

And  we,  the  men  who  braved  this  task,  were  outcasts 
of  the  world.  A  blind  fate,  a  vast  merciless  mechanism, 
cut  and  shaped  the  fabric  of  our  existence.  We  were 
men  despised  when  we  were  most  useful,  rejected  when 
we  were  not  needed,  and  forgotten  when  our  troubles 
weighed  upon  us  heavily.  We  were  the  men  sent  out  to 
fight  the  spirit  of  the  wastes,  rob  it  of  all  its  primeval  hor- 
rors, and  batter  down  the  barriers  of  its  world-old  de- 
fences. Where  we  were  working  a  new  town  would  spring 
up  some  day;  it  was  already  springing  up,  and  then,  if 
one  of  us  walked  there,  "a  man  with  no  fixed  address," 
he  would  be  taken  up  and  tried  as  a  loiterer  and  vagrant. 

Even  as  I  thought  of  these  things  a  shoulder  of  jagged 
rock  fell  into  a  cutting  far  below.  There  was  the  sound 
of  a  scream  in  the  distance,- and  a  song  died  away  in  the 
throat  of  some  rude  singer.  Then  out  of  the  pit  I  saw 
men,  red  with  the  muck  of  the  deep  earth  and  redder  still 
with  the  blood  of  a  stricken  mate,  come  forth,  bearing 
between  them  a  silent  figure.  Another  of  the  pioneers 
of  civilization  had  given  up  his  life  for  the  sake  of 
society.  .  .  . 

The  plaintive  sunset  waned  into  a  sickly  haze  one 
evening,  and  when  the  night  slipped  upwards  to  the 
moimtain  peaks  never  a  star  came  out  into  the  vastness 


Toil  49 

of  the  high  heavens.  Next  morning  we  had  to  thaw  the 
door  of  our  shack  out  of  the  muck  into  which  it  was  frozen 
during  the  night.  Outside  the  snow  had  fallen  heavily 
on  the  ground,  and  the  virgin  granaries  of  winter  had 
been  emptied  on  the  face  of  the  world. 

Unkempt,  ragged,  and  dispirited,  we  slunk  to  our  toil, 
the  snow  falling  on  our  shoulders  and  forcing  its  way 
insistently  through  our  worn  and  battered  bluchers. 
The  cuttings  were  full  of  slush  to  the  brim,  and  we  had  to 
grope  through  them  with  our  hands  vmtil  we  found  the 
jumpers  and  hammers  at-  the  bottom.  These  we  held 
under  our  coats  imtil  the  heat  of  oiu-  bodies  warmed  them, 
then  we  went  on  with  our  toil. 

At  intervals  during  the  day  the  winds  of  the  mountain 
put  their  heads  together  and  swept  a  whirlstorm  of  snow 
down  upon  us,  wetting  each  man  to  the  pelt.  Our  tools 
froze  until  the  hands  that  gripped  them  were  scarred  as 
if  by  red-hot  spits.  We  shook  uncertain  over  our  toil, 
our  sodden  clothes  scalding  and  itching  the  skin  with 
every  movement  of  the  swinging  hammers.  Near  at  hand 
the  lean  derrick  jibs  whirled  on  their  pivots  like  spectres 
of  some  ghoulish  carnival,  and  the  muck-barrows  crunched 
backwards  and  forwards,  all  their  dirt  and  rust  hidden  in 
woolly  mantles  of  snow.  Hither  and  thither  the  little 
black  figures  of  the  workers  moved  across  the  waste  of 
whiteness  like  shadows  on  a  lime-washed  wall.  Their 
breath  steamed  out  on  the  air  and  disappeared  in  space 
like  the  evanescent  and  fragile  vapor  of  frying  mush- 
rooms. .  .  . 

When  night  came  on  we  crouched  aroimd  the  hot- 
plate and  told  stories  of  bygone  winters,  when  men 
dropped  frozen  stiff  in  the  trenches  where  they  labored. 
A  few  tried  to  gamble  near  the  door,  but  the  wind  that 

4 


60  The    Cry   for    Justice 

cut  through  the  chinks  of  the  walls  chased  them  to  the 
fire. 

Outside  the  winds  of  the  night  scampered  madly, 
whistling  through  every  crevice  of  the  shack  and  threat- 
ening to  smash  all  its  timbers  to  pieces.  We  bent  closer 
over  the  hot-plate,  and  the  many  who  could  not  draw 
near  to  the  heat  scrambled  into  bed  and  sought  warmth 
under  the  meagre  blankets.  Suddenly  the  lamp  went 
out,  and  a  darkness  crept  into  the  corners  of  the  dwell- 
ing, causing  the  figures  of  my  mates  to  assume  fantastic 
shapes  in  the  gloom.  The  circle  around  the  hot-plate 
drew  closer,  and  long  lean  arms  were  stretched  out  towards 
the  flames  and  the  redness.  Seldom  may  a  man  have 
the  chance  to  look  on  hands  like  those  of  my  mates. 
Fingers  were  missing  from  many,  scraggy  scars  seaming 
along  the  wrists  or  across  the  palms  of  others  told  of  acci- 
dents which  had  taken  place  on  many  precarious  shifts. 
The  faces  near  me  were  those  of  ghouls  worn  out  in  some 
unholy  midnight  revel.  Sunken  eyes  glared  balefully 
in  the  dim  unearthly  light  of  the  fire,  and  as  I  looked 
at  them  a  moment's  terror  settled  on  my  soul.  For  a 
second  I  lived  in  an  early  age,  and  my  mates  were  the 
cave-dwellers  of  an  older  world  than  mine.  In  the  dark- 
ness, near  the  door,  a  pipe  glowed  brightly  for  a  moment, 
then  the  light  went  suddenly  out  and  the  gloom  settled 
again. 


Toil  51 

%^t  &ons  of  tge  ddlase  ^labe 

iFrom  "The  Spell  of  the  Yukon") 

By  Robert  W.  Service 

(Canadian  poet,  born  1876.     His  poems  of  Alaska  and  the  great 
Northwest  have  attained  wide  popularity) 

^^  T^HEN  the  long,  long  day  is  over,  and  the  Big  Boss 

'  '      gives  me  my  pay, 
I  hope  that  it  won't  be  hell-fire,  as  some  of  the  parsons  say. 
And  I  hope  that  it  won't  be  heaven,  with  some  of  the 

parsons  I've  met — 
All  I  want  is  just  quiet,  just  to  rest  and  forget. 
Look  at   my  face,  toil-furrowed;   look  at   my   calloused 

hands; 
Master,  I've  done  Thy  bidding,  wrought  in  Thy  many 

lands — 
Wrought  for  the  little  masters,  big-bellied  they  be,  and 

rich ; 
I've  done  their  desire  for  a  daily  hire,  and  I  die  like  a  dog 

in  a  ditch.   .    .    . 
I,  the  primitive  toiler,  half  naked  and  grimed  to  the  eyes, 
Sweating  it  deep  in  their  ditches,  swining  it  stark  in  their 

styes; 
Hurhng  down  forests  before  me,  spanning  tumultuous 

streams; 
Down  in  the  ditch  building  o'er  me  palaces  fairer  than 

dreams; 
Boring  the  rock  to  the  ore-bed,  driving  the  road  through 

the  fen. 
Resolute,  dumb,  uncomplaining,  a  man  in  a  world  of  men. 
Master,  I've  filled  my  contract,  wrought  in  Thy  many 

lands; 


52  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Not  by  my  sins  wilt  Thou  judge  me,  but  by  the  work  of  my 

hands. 
Master,  I've  done  Thy  bidding,  and  the  light  is  low  in  the 

west, 
And  the  long,  long  shift  is  over.   .    .    .     Master,  I've 

earned  it — Rest. 


^aniiattan 

By  Charles  Hanson  Towne 
(American  poet,  born  1877) 

T TERE  in  the  furnace  City,  in  the  humid  air  they  faint, 

■*■    ■»•  God's  pallid  poor.  His  people,  with  scarcely  space  for 

breath; 
So  foul  their  teeming  houses,  so  full  of  shame  and  taint, 
They  cannot  crowd  within  them  for  the  frightful  fear  of 

Death. 

Yet  somewhere,  Lord,  Thine  open  seas  are  singing  with 
the  rain. 
And  somewhere  underneath  Thy  stars  the  cool  waves 
crash  and  beat; 
Why  is  it  here,  and  only  here,  are  huddled  Death  and  Pain, 
And  here  the  form  of  Horror  stalks,  a  menace  in  the 
street! 

The  burning  flagstones  gleam  like  glass  at  morning  and 
at  noon. 
The  giant  walls  shut  out  the  breeze — if  any  breeze 
should  blow; 
And  high  above  the  smothering  town  at  midnight  hangs 
the  moon, 
A  red  medallion  in  the  sky,  a  monster  cameo. 


Toil  53 

Yet  somewhere,  God,  drenched  roses  bloom  by  fountains 

draped  with  mist 

In  old,  lost  gardens  of  the  earth  made  lyrical  with  rain; 

Why  is  it  here  a  million  brows  by  hungry  Death  are  kissed. 

And  here  is  packed,  one  Smnmer  night,  a  whole  world's 

fiery  pain! 


a  iSDtpattmtnt'feitorr  CUrft 

{From  "  The  House  of  Bondage") 

By  Reginald  Wright  Kauffman 

(American  novelist,  born  1877) 

■p/'ATIE  FLANAGAN  arrived  at  the  Lennox  depart- 
■^  ^  ment  store  every  morning  at  a  quarter  to  eight 
o'clock.  She  passed  through  the  employees'  dark  en- 
trance, a  unit  in  a  horde  of  other  workers,  and  registered 
the  instant  of  her  arrival  on  a  time-machine  that  could 
in  no  wise  be  suborned  to  perjury.  She  hung  up  her 
wraps  in  a  subterranean  cloak-room,  and,  hurrying  to 
the  counter  to  which  she  was  assigned,  first  helped  in 
"laying  out  the  stock,"  and  then  stood  behind  her  wares, 
exhibiting,  cajoling,  selling,  until  an  hour  before  noon. 
At  that  time  she  was  permitted  to  run  away  for  exactly 
forty-five  minutes  for  the  glass  of  milk  and  two  pieces 
of  bread  and  jam  that  composed  her  luncheon.  This 
repast  disposed  of,  she  returned  to  the  coimter  and 
remained  behind  it,  standing  like  a  war-worn  watcher 
on  the  ramparts  of  a  beleaguered  city,  till  the  store  closed 
at  six,  when  there  remained  to  her  at  least  fifteen  min- 
utes more  of  work  before  her  sales-book  was  balanced 
and  the  wares  covered  up  for  the  night.     There  were 


54  The    Cry   jor    Justice 

times,  indeed,  when  she  did  not  leave  the  store  until  seven 
o'clock,  but  those  times  were  caused  rather  by  customers 
than  by  the  management  of  the  store,  which  could  pre- 
vent new  shoppers  from  entering  the  doors  after  six,  but 
could  hardly  turn  out  those  akeady  inside. 
.  The  automatic  time-machine  and  a  score  of  more 
annoying,  and  equally  automatic,  human  beings  kept 
watch  upon  all  that  she  did.  The  former,  in  addition 
to  the  floor-walker  in  her  section  of  the  store,  recorded 
her  every  going  and  coming,  the  latter  reported  every 
movement  not  prescribed  by  the  regulations  of  the  estab- 
lishment; and  the  result  upon  Katie  and  her  fellow- 
workers  was  much  the  result  observable  upon  condemned 
assassins  under  the  unwinking  surveillance  of  the  Death 
Watch. 

If  Katie  was  late,  she  was  fined  ten  cents  for  each 
offense.  She  was  reprimanded  if  her  portion  of  the 
counter  was  disordered  after  a  mauling  by  careless  cus- 
tomers. She  was  fined  for  all  mistakes  she  made  in  the 
matter  of  prices  and  the  additions  on  her  salesbook; 
and  she  was  fined  if,  having  asked  the  floor-walker  for 
three  or  five  minutes  to  leave  the  floor  in  order  to  tidy 
her  hair  and  hands,  in  constant  need  of  attention  through 
the  rapidity  of  her  work  and  the  handling  of  her  dyed 
wares,  she  exceeded  her  time  limit  by  so  much  as  a  few 
seconds. 

There  were  no  seats  behind  the  counters,  and  Katie, 
whatever  her  physical  condition,  remained  on  her  feet 
all  day  long,  unless  she  could  arrange  for  relief  by  a  fellow- 
worker 'during  that  worker's  luncheon  time.  There  was 
no  place  for  rest  save  a  damp,  ill-lighted  "Recreation 
Room"  in  the  basement,  furnished  with  a  piano  that 
nobody  had  time  to  play,  magazines  that  nobody  had 


Toil  56 

time  to  read,  and  wicker  chairs  in  which  nobody  had 
time  to  sit.  All  that  one  might  do  was  to  serve  the  whims 
and  accept  the  scoldings  of  women  customers  who  knew 
too  ill,  or  too  well,  what  they  wanted  to  buy;  keep  a 
tight  rein  upon  one's  indignation  at  strolling  men  who 
did  not  intend  to  buy  anything  that  the  shop  advertised; 
be  servilely  smiling  under  the  innuendoes  of  the  high- 
collared  floor-walkers,  in  order  to  escape  their  wrath; 
maintain  a  sharp  outlook  for  the  "spotters,"  or  paid 
spies  of  the  establishment;  thwart,  if  possible,  those  pre- 
tending customers  who  were  scouts  sent  from  other 
stores,  and  watch  for  shop-lifters  on  the  one  hand  and 
the  firm's  detectives  on  the  other. 

"It  ain't  a  cinch,  by  no  means" — thus  ran  the  depart- 
ing Cora'  Costigan's  advice  to  her  successor — "but  it 
ain't  nothin'  now  to  what  it  will  be  in  the  holidays.  I'd 
rather  be  dead  than  work  in  the  toy-department  in 
December — I  wonder  if  the  kids  guess  how  we  that  sells 
'em  hates  the  sight  of  their  playthings? — and  I'd  rather 
be  dead  an'  damned  than  work  in  the  accounting  depart- 
ment. A  girl  friend  of  mine  worked  there  last  year, — 
only  it  was  over  to  Malcare's  store — an'  didn't  get  through 
her  Christmas  Eve  work  till  two  on  Christmas  morning, 
an'  she  lived  over  on  Staten  Island.  She  overslept  on 
the  twenty-sixth,  an'  they  docked  her  a  half-week's  pay. 

"An'  don't  never,"  concluded  Cora,  "don't  never  let 
'em  transfer  you  to  the  exchange  department.  The 
people  that  exchange  things  all  belong  in  the  psycho- 
pathic ward  at  Bellevue— them  that  don't  belong  in  Sing 
Sing.  Half  the  goods  they  bring  back  have  been  used 
for  days,  an'  when  the  store  ties  a  tag  on  a  sent-on-approval 
opera  cloak,  the  women  wriggle  the  tag  inside,  an'  wear 
it  to  the  theatre  with  a  scarf  draped  over  the  string. 
Thank  God,  I'm  goin'  to  be  married!" 


56  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Si  Ctp  ftom  tfie  (Klictto 

{From  the  Yiddish  of  Morris  Rosenfeld) 

(The  poet  of  the  East  Side  Jews  of  New  York  City,  born  1861. 
His  poems  appeared  in  Yiddish  newspapers  and  leaflets,  and  are  the 
genuine  voice  of  the  sweat-shop  workers.  The  following  translation 
is  by  Charles  Weber  Linn) 

THE  roaring  of  the  wheels  has  filled  my  ears, 
The  clashing  and  the  clamor  shut  me  in; 
Myself,  my  soul,  in  chaos  disappears, 
I  cannot  think  or  feel  amid  the  din. 
Toiling  and  toiling  and  toiling — endless  toil. 

For  whom?    For  what?    Why  should  the  work  be  done? 
I  do  not  ask,  or  know.     I  only  toil. 
I  work  until  the  day  and  night  are  one. 

The  clock  above  me  ticks  away  the  day. 

Its  hands  are  spinning,  spinning,  like  the  wheels. 
It  cannot  sleep  or  for  a  moment  stay. 

It  is  a  thing  like  me,  and  does  not  feel. 
It  throbs  as  tho'  my  heart  were  beating  there — 

A  heart?    My  heart?    I  know  not  what  it  means. 
The  clock  ticks,  and  below  I  strive  and  stare. 

And  so  we  lose  the  hour.     We  are  machines. 

Noon  calls  a  truce,  an  ending  to  the  sound, 

As  if  a  battle  had  one  moment  stayed — 
A  bloody  field!    The  dead  lie  all  around; 

Their  wounds  cry  out  until  I  grow  afraid. 
It  comes — the  signal!    See,  the  dead  men  rise, 

They  fight  again,  amid  the  roar  they  fight. 
Blindly,  and  knowing  not  for  whom,  or  why. 

They  fight,  they  fall,  they  sink  into  the  night. 


Toil  67 

{From  "A  Motley") 

By  John  Galsworthy 

(English  novelist  and  dramatist,  born  1867) 

Che  held  in  one  hand  a  threaded  needle,  in  the  other 
^^  a  pair  of  trousers,  to  which  she  had  been  adding  the 
accessories  demanded  by  our  civilization.  One  had  never 
seen  her  without  a  pair  of  trousers  in  her  hand,  because 
she  could  only  manage  to  supply  them  with  decency  at  the 
rate  of  seven  or  eight  pairs  a  day,  working  twelve  hours. 
For  each  pair  she  received  seven  farthings,  and  used 
nearly  one  farthing's  worth  of  cotton;  and  this  gave  her 
an  income,  in  good  times,  of  six  to  seven  shillings  a  week. 
But  some  weeks  there  were  no  trousers  to  be  had  and  then 
it  was  necessary  to  live  on  the  memory  of  those  which  had 
been,  together  with  a  little  smn  put  by  from  weeks  when 
trousers  were  more  plentiful.  Deducting  two  shillings 
and  threepence  for  rent  of  the  little  back  room,  there 
was  therefore,  on  an  average,  about  two  shillings  and 
ninepence  left  for  the  sustenance  of  herself  and  husband, 
who  was  fortunately  a  cripple,  and  somewhat  indifferent 
whether  he  ate  or  not.  And  looking  at  her  face,  so  fur- 
rowed, and  at  her  figure,  of  which  there  was  not  much,  one 
could  well  understand  that  she,  too,  had  long  established 
within  her  such  internal  economy  as  was  suitable  to  one 
who  had  been  "in  trousers"  twenty-seven  years,  and,  since 
her  husband's  accident  fifteen  years  before,  in  trousers 
only,  finding  her  own  cotton.  ...  He  was  a  man 
with  a  roimd,  white  face,  a  little  grey  mustache  curving 


*  By  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


68  The    Cry   for    Justice 

down  like  a  parrot's  beak,  and  round  whitish  eyes.  In 
his  aged  and  unbuttoned  suit  of  grey,  with  his  head  held 
rather  to  one  side,  he  looked  like  a  parrot — a  bird  clinging 
to  its  perch,  with  one  grey  leg  shortened  and  crumpled 
against  the  other.  He  talked,  too,  in  a  toneless,  equable 
voice,  looking  sideways  at  the  fire,  above  the  rims  of  dim 
spectacles,  and  now  and  then  smiling  with  a  peculiar 
disenchanted  patience. 

No — he  said — it  was  no  use  to  complain;  did  no  good! 
Things  had  been  like  this  for  years,  and  so,  he  had  no 
doubt,  they  always  would  be.  There  had  never  been 
much  in  trousers;  not  this  common  sort  that  anybody'd 
wear,  as  you  might  say.  Though  he'd  never  seen  any- 
body wearing  such  things;  and  where  they  went  to  he 
didn't  know — out  of  England,  he  should  think.  Yes, 
he  had  been  a  carman;  ran  over  by  a  dray.  Oh!  yes, 
they  had  given  him  something — four  bob  a  week;  but 
the  old  man  had  died  and  the  four  bob  had  died  too. 
Still,  there  he  was,  sixty  years  old — not  so  very  bad  for 
his  age.  .  .  . 

They  were  talking,  he  had  heard  said,  about  doing 
something  for  trousers.  But  what  could  you  do  for 
things  like  these,  at  half  a  crown  a  pair?  People  must 
have  'em,  so  you'd  got  to  make  'em.  There  you  were, 
and  there  you  would  be!  She  went  and  heard  them  talk. 
They  talked  very  well,  she  said.  It  was  intellectual  for 
her  to  go.  He  couldn't  go  himself  owing  to  his  leg.  He'd 
hke  to  hear  them  talk.  Oh,  yes!  and  he  was  silent,  staring 
sideways  at  the  fire  as  though  in  the  thin  crackle  of  the 
flames  attacking  the  fresh  piece  of  wood,  he  were  hearing 
the  echo  of  that  talk  from  which  he  was  cut  off.  "Lor' 
bless  you!"  he  said  suddenly.  "They'll  do  nothing! 
Can't!"     And,  stretching  out  his  dirty  hand  he  took  from 


Toil  59 

his  wife's  lap  a  pair  of  trousers,  and  held  it  up.  "Look 
at  'em!  Why  you  can  see  right  throu'  'em,  hnings  and  all. 
Who's  goin'  to  pay  more  than  'alf  a  crown  for  that?  Where 
they  go  to  I  can't  think.  Who  wears  'em?  Some  institu- 
tion I  should  say.  They  talk,  but  dear  me,  they'll  never 
do  anything  so  long  as  there's  thousands  like  us,  glad  to 
work  for  what  we  can  get.  Best  not  to  think  about  it,  I 
says." 

And  laying  the  trousers  back  on  his  wife's  lap  he 
resumed  his  sidelong  stare  into  the  fire. 


%^t  &ona:  of  i^t  &|iict 

By  Thomas  Hood 
(Popular  English  poet  and  humorist;   1799-1845) 

WITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread, — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — ^work 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  0 !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save. 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 


60  The    Cry   for    Justice 

"  Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim! 
Work — work — ^work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 

"O  Men,  with  sisters  dear! 

0  Men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  hiunan  creatures'  lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch 

.In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt! 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death— 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
O  God!  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

' '  Work — work — ^work ! 

My  labor  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table— a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  something  falling  there ! 


Toil  61 

' '  Work — ^work — ^work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime! 
Work — ^work — ^work 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work — work — work 

In  the  dull  December  light! 
And  work — ^work — work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright! 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

"0!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet! 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel. 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal! 

"  0 !  but  for  one  short  hour — 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief! 
A  httle  weeping  would  ease  my  heart; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!" 


62  The    Cry   for    Justice 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich! — 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 


•a  %on'Oon  feitoeatinff  2Dm* 

{From  "The  People  of  the  Abyss") 

By  Jack  London 

(California  novelist  and  Socialist;  born  1876.     The  story  of  his  life 

will   be  found  on  p.  732.     For  the  work  here  quoted  London 

Uved  among  the  people  whose  misery  be  describes) 

A  SPAWN  of  children  cluttered  the  slimy  pavement, 
for  all  the  world  like  tadpoles  just  turned  frogs  on 
the  bottom  of  a  dry  pond.  In  a  narrow  doorway,  so 
narrow  that  pprforce  we  stepped  over  her,  sat  a  woman 
with  a  yoimg  babe,  nursing  at  breasts  grossly  naked  and 
hbelling  all  the  sacredness  of  motherhood.  In  the  black 
and  narrow  hall  behind  her  we  waded  through  a  mess 
of  yoimg  life,  and  essayed  an  even  narrower  and  fouler 
stairway.  Up  we  went,  three  flights,  each  landing  two 
feet  by  three  in  area,  and  heaped  with  filth  and  refuse. 
There  were  seven  rooms  in  this  abomination  called  a 
house.  In  six  of  the  rooms,  twenty-odd  people,  of  both 
sexes  and  all  ages,  cooked,  ate,  slept,  and  worked.     In 

*  By  permiasion  of  the  Macmillan  Co. 


THE   ^^\MPIRE 

E.    M.    LILIEN 

[Contem-porary  German  illustrator) 


Toil  63 

size  the  rooms  averaged  eight  feet  by  eight,  or  possibly 
nine.  The  seventh  room  we  entered.  It  was  the  den  in 
which  five  men  sweated.  It  was  seven  feet  wide  by  eight 
long,  and  the  table  at  which  the  work  was  performed 
took  up  the  major  portion  of  the  space.  On  this  table 
were  five  lasts,  and  there  was  barely  room  for  the  men 
to  stand  to  their  work,  for  the  rest  of  the  space  was 
heaped  with  cardboard,  leather,  bimdles  of  shoe  uppers, 
and  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  materials  used  in 
attaching  the  uppers  of  shoes  to  their  soles. 

In  the  adjoining  room  lived  a  woman  and  six  children. 
In  another  vile  hole  lived  a  widow,  with  an  only  son  of 
sixteen  who  was  dying  of  consumption.  The  woman 
hawked  sweetmeats  on  the  street,  I  was  told,  and  more 
often  failed  than  not  to  supply  her  son  with  the  three 
quarts  of  milk  he  daily  required.  Further,  this  son,  weak 
and  dying,  did  not  taste  meat  oftener  than  once  a  week; 
and  the  kind  and  quality  of  this  meat  cannot  possibly 
be  imagined  by  people  who  have  never  watched  human 
swine  eat. 

"The  w'y  'e  coughs  is  somethia'  terrible,"  volunteered 
my  sweated  friend,  referring  to  the  dying  boy.  "We 
'ear  'im  'ere,  w'ile  we're  workin',  an'  it's  terrible,  I  say, 
terrible!" 

And,  what  of  the  coughing  and  the  sweetmeats,  I  foimd 
another  menace  added  to  the  hostile  environment  of  the 
children  of  the  slums. 

My  sweated  friend,  when  work  was  to  be  had,  toiled 
with  four  other  men  in  his  eight-by-seven  room.  In  the 
winter  a  lamp  burned  nearly  all  the  day  and  added  its 
fumes  to  the  over-loaded  air,  which  was  breathed,  and 
breathed,  and  breathed  again. 

In  good  times,  when  there  was  a  rush  of  work,  this 


64  The    Cry   for    Justice 

man  told  me  that  he  could  earn  as  high  as  "thirty  bob  a 
week." — Thirty  shillings!     Seven  dollars  and  a  half! 

"But  it's  only  the  best  of  us  can  do  it,"  he  qualified. 
"An'  then  we  work  twelve,  thirteen,  and  fourteen  hours 
a  day,  just  as  fast  as  we  can.  An'  you  should  see  us 
sweat!  Just  runnin'  from  us!  If  you  could  see  us,  it'd 
dazzle  your  eyes — tacks  flyin'  out  of  mouth  like  from  a 
machine.     Look  at  my  mouth." 

I  looked.  The  teeth  were  worn  down  by  the  constant 
friction  of  the  metallic  brads,  while  they  were  coal-black 
and  rotten. 

"I  clean  my  teeth,"  he  added,  "else  they'd  be  worse." 

After  he  had  told  me  that  the  workers  had  to  furnish 
their  own  tools,  brads,  "grindery,"  cardboard,  rent, 
light,  and  what  not,  it  was  plain  that  his  thirty  bob  was 
a  diminishing  quantity. 

"But  how  long  does  the  rush  season  last,  in  which  you 
receive  this  high  wage  of  thirty  bob?"  I  asked. 

"Four  months,"  was  the  answer;  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  year,  he  informed  me,  they  average  from  "half 
a  quid"  to  a  "quid,"  a  week,  which  is  equivalent  to  from 
two  dollars  and  a  half  to  five  dollars.  The  present  week 
was  half  gone,  and  he  had  earned  fovir  bob,  or  one  dollar. 
And  yet  I  was  given  to  understand  that  this  was  one  of 
the  better  grades  of  sweating. 

The  Hop-pickers 

So  far  has  the  divorcement  of  the  worker  from  the 
soil  proceeded,  that  the  farming  districts,  the  civiUzed 
world  over,  are  dependent  upon  the  cities  for  the  gather- 
ing of  the  harvests.  Then  it  is,  when  the  land  is  spill- 
ing its  ripe  wealth  to  waste,  that  the  street  folk,  who  have 
been  driven  away  from  the  soil,  are  called  back  to  it 


Toil  65 

again.  But  in  England  they  return,  not  as  prodigals, 
but  as  outcasts  still,  as  vagrants  and  pariahs,  to  be 
doubted  and  flouted  by  their  country  brethren,  to  sleep 
in  jails  or  casual  wards,  or  under  the  hedges,  and  to  live 
the  Lord  knows  how. 

It  is  estimated  that  Kent  alone  requires  eighty  thousand 
of  the  street  people  to  pick  her  hops.  And  out  they  come, 
obedient  to  the  call,  which  is  the  call  of  their  bellies  and 
of  the  lingering  dregs  of  adventure-lust  still  in  them. 
Sliuns,  stews,  and  ghetto  pour  them  forth,  and  the  fes- 
tering contents  of  slums,  stews,  and  ghetto  are  undimin- 
ished. Yet  they  overrun  the  country  like  an  army 
of  ghouls,  and  the  country  does  not  want  them.  They 
are  out  of  place.  As  they  drag  their  squat,  misshapen 
bodies  along  the  highways  and  byways,  they  resemble 
some  vile  spawn  from  underground.  Their  very  presence, 
the  fact  of  their  existence,  is  an  outrage  to  the  fresh, 
bright  sun  and  the  green  and  growing  things.  The 
clean,  upstanding  trees  cry  shame  upon  them  and  their 
withered  crookedness,  and  their  rottenness  is  a  slimy 
desecration  of  the  sweetness  and  purity  of  nature. 

Is  the  picture  overdrawn?  It  all  depends.  For  one 
who  sees  and  thinks  life  in  terms  of  shares  and  coupons, 
it  is  certainly  overdrawn.  But  for  one  who  sees  and 
thinks  life  in  terms  of  manhood  and  womanhood,  it  can- 
not be  overdrawn.  Such  hordes  of  beastly  wretchedness 
and  inarticulate  misery  'are  no  compensation  for  a  mil- 
lionaire brewer  who  hves  in  a  West  End  palace,  sates 
himself  with  the  sensuous  delights  of  London's  golden 
theatres,  hobnobs  with  lordlings  and  princelings,  and  is 
knighted  by  the  king.  Wins  his  spurs — God  forbid! 
In  old  time  the  great  blonde  beasts  rode  in  the  battle's 
van  and  won  their  spurs  by  cleaving  men  from  pate  to 

8 


66  The    Cry   for    Justice 

chin.  And,  after  all,  it  is  finer  to  kill  a  strong  man  with 
a  clean-slicing  blow  of  singing  steel  than  to  make  a  beast 
of  him,  and  of  his  seed  through  the  generations,  by  the 
artful  and  spidery  manipulation  of  industry  and 
politics. 


(Kntiironmfnt 

{From  "Merrie  England") 

By  Robert  Blatchford  \ 

(This  book  is  probably  tlie  most  widely-circulated  of  Socialist 
books  in  English.  Over  two  miUion  copies  have  been  sold  in  Great 
Britain,  and  probably  a  miUion  in  America.  The  author  is  the 
editor  of  the  London  Clarion;  born  1851) 

SOME  years  ago  a  certain  writer,  much  esteemed  for 
his  graceful  style  of  saying  silly  things,  informed  us 
that  the  poor  remain  poor  because  they  show  no  efficient 
desire  to  be  anything  else.  Is  that  true?  Are  only  the 
idle  poor?  Corne  with  me  and  I  will  show  you  where 
men  and  women  work  from  morning  till  night,  from  week 
to  week,  from  year  to  year,  at  the  full  stretch  of  their 
powers,  in  dim  and  fetid  dens,  and  yet  are  poor — aye, 
destitute — have  for  their  wages  a  crust  of  bread  and  rags. 
I  will  show  you  where  men  work  in  dirt  and  heat,  using 
the  strength  of  brutes,  for  a  dozen  hours  a  day,'  and  sleep 
at  night  in  styes,  until  brain  and  muscle  are  exhausted, 
and  fresh  slaves  are  yoked  to  the  golden  car  of  commerce, 
and  the  broken  drudges  filter  through  the  poor-house  or 
the  prison  to  a  felon's  or  a  pauper's  grave!  I  will  show 
you  how  men  and  women  thus  work  and  suffer  and  faint 
and  die,  generation  after  generation;  and  I  will  show 
you  how  the  longer  and  the  harder  these  wretches  toil 


Toil  67 

the  worse  their  lot  becomes;  and  I  will  show  you  the 
graves,  and  find  witnesses  to  the  histories  of  brave  and 
noble  and  industrious  poor  men  whose  lives  were  fives 
of  toil,  and  poverty,  and  whose  deaths  were  tragedies. 

And  all  these  things  are  due  to  sin — ^but  it  is  to  the 
sin  of  the  smug  hypocrites  who  grow  rich  upon  the  rob- 
bery and  the  ruin  of  their  fellow-creatures. 


By  Georg  Herwegh 

(German  poet,  1817-1875;   took  part  in  the  attempt  at 
revolution  in  Baden  in  1848) 

PRAY  and  work!  proclaims  the  world; 
Briefly  pray,  for  Time  is  gold. 
On  the  door  there  knocketh  dread — 
Briefly  pray,  for  Time  is  bread. 

And  ye  plow  and  plant  to  grow. 
And  ye  rivet  and  ye  sow. 
And  ye  hammer  and  ye  spin — 
Say,  my  people,  what  ye  win. 

Weave  at  loom  both  day  and  night, 
Mine  the  coal  to  mountain  height; 
Fill  right  full  the  harvest  horn — 
Full  to  brim  with  wine  and  com. 

Yet  where  is  thy  meal  prepared? 
Yet  where  is  thy  rest-hour  shared? 
Yet  where  is  thy  warm  hearth-flre? 
Where  is  thy  sharp  sword  of  ire? 


68  The    Cry   jor    Justice 

ContJtntional  %it^  ot  jflDur  CifaiUjation 

By  Max  Nordau 

(A  Hungarian  Jewish  physician,  born  1849,  whose  work, 
"Degeneration,''  won  an  international  audience) 

THE  modern  day  laborer  is  more  wretched  than  the 
slave  of  former  times,  for  he  is  fed  by  no  master 
nor  any  one  else,  and  if  his  position  is  one  of  more  liberty 
than  the  slave,  it  is  principally  the  liberty  of  dying  of 
hunger.  He  is  by  no  means  so  well  off  as  the  outlaw  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  for  he  has  none  of  the  gay  independence 
of  the  free-lance.  He  seldom  rebels  against  society,  and 
has  neither  means  nor  opportunity  to  take  by  violence 
or  treachery  what  is  denied  him  by  the  existing  condi- 
tions of  hfe.  The  rich  is  thus  richer,  the  poor  poorer 
than  ever  before  since  the  beginnings  of  history. 


'^ITfie  JFaHure  o£  CibiH?atfon 

By  Frederic  Harrison 

(Enghsh  essayist  and  philosopher,  born  1831;   President  of  the 
Positivist  Society) 

I  CANNOT  myself  understand  how  any  one  who 
knows  what  the  present  manner  is  can  think  that  it 
is  satisfactory.  To  me,  at  least,  it  would  be  enough  to 
condemn  modern  society  as  hardly  an  advance  on  slav- 
ery or  serfdom,  if  the  permanent  condition  of  industry 
were  to  be  that  which  we  behold;  that  ninety  per  cent 
of  the  actual  producers  of  wealth  have  no  home  that 
they  can  call  their  own  beyond  the  end  of  the  week; 


Toil  _  69 

have  no  bit  of  soil,  or  so  much  as  a  room  that  belongs 
to  them;  have  nothing  of  value  of  any  kind,  except  as 
much  old  furniture  as  will  go  in  a  cart;  have  the  pre- 
carious chance  of  weekly  wages,  which  barely  suffice  to 
keep  them  in  health;  are  housed  for  the  most  part  in 
places  that  no  man  thinks  fit  for  his  horse;  are  separated 
by  so  narrow  a  margin  from  destitution  that  a  month 
of  bad  trade,  sickness  or  unexpected  loss  brings  them 
face  to  face  with  hunger  and  pauperism.  In  cities,  the 
increasing  organization  of  factory  work  makes  life  more 
and  more  crowded,  and  work  more  and  more  a  monot- 
onous routine;  in  the  country,  the  increasing  pressure 
makes  rural  life  continually  less  free,  healthful  and  cheer- 
ful; whilst  the  prizes  and  hopes  of  betterment  are  now 
reduced  to  a  minimiun.  This  is  the  normal  state  of  the 
average  workman  in  town  or  country,  to  which  we  must 
add  the  record  of  preventable  disease,  accident,  suffering 
and  social  oppression  with  its  immense  yearly  roll  of 
death  and  misery.  But  below  this  normal  state  of  the 
average  workman  there  is  found  the  great  band  of  the 
destitute  outcasts — the  camp-followers  of  the  army  of 
industry,  at  least  one-tenth  of  the  whole  proletarian 
population,  whose  normal  condition  is  one  of  sickening 
wretchedness.  If  this  is  to  be  the  permanent  arrange- 
ment of  modern  society,  civilization  must  be  held  to 
bring  a  curse  on  the  great  majority  of  mankind. 


BOOK  II 

The  Chasm 


The  contrast  between  riches  and  poverty ;  the  protest  of  common 

sense  against  a  condition  of  society  where  one-tenth  of  the  people 

own  nine-tenths  of  the  wealth. 


tfllat  ICpIec 

By  Robebt  Southey 

(One  of  the  so-called  "Lake  School"  of  English  poets,  which 
included  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge;  1774-1843.  Poet-Laureate 
for  thirty  years.  The  refrain  of  this  song  was  the  motto  of  Wat 
Tyler's  rebels,  who  marched  upon  London  in  1381) 


"W 


HEN  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman?" 


Wretched  is  the  infant's  lot, 
Born  within  the  straw-roof 'd  cot; 
Be  he  generous,  wise,  or  brave. 
He  must  only  be  a  slave. 
Long,  long  labor,  little  rest, 
Still  to  toil,  to  be  oppress'd; 
Drain'd  by  taxes  of  his  store, 
Punish'd  next  for  being  poor: 
This  is  the  poor  wretch's  lot. 
Born  within  the  straw-roof'd  cot. 

While  the  peasant  works, — to  sleep. 
What  the  peasant  sows, — ^to  reap,    / 
On  the  couch  of  ease  to  he. 
Rioting  in  revelry; 
Be  he  villain,  be  he  fool, 
Still  to  hold  despotic  rule. 
Trampling  on  his  slaves  with  scorn! 
This  is  to  be  nobly  born. 

"  When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span. 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman?" 
(73) 


74  The    Cry   for    Justice 

{From  "Sartor  Resartus") 

By  Thomas  Carlyle 

(See  page  31) 

* '  ^  I  "HE  furniture  of  this  Caravanserai  consisted  of  a 
■*■  large  iron  Pot,  two  oaken  Tables,  two  Benches, 
two  Chairs,  and  a  Potheen  Noggin.  There  was  a  Loft 
above  (attainable  by  a  ladder),  upon  which  the  inmates 
slept;  and  the  space  below  was  divided  by  a  hurdle 
into  two  apartments;  the  one  for  their  cow  and  pig,  the 
other  for  themselves  and  guests.  On  entering  the  house 
we  discovered  the  family,  eleven  in  number,  at  dinner; 
the  father  sitting  at  the  top,  the  mother  at  the  bottom, 
the  children  on  each  side,  of  a  large  oaken  Board,  which 
was  scooped  out  in  the  middle,  like  a  trough,  to  receive 
the  contents  of  their  Pot  of  Potatoes.  Little  holes  were 
cut  at  equal  distances  to  contain  Salt;  and  a  bowl  of 
Milk  stood  on  the  table;  all  the  luxuries  of  meat  and 
beer,  bread,  knives  and  dishes,  were  dispensed  with." 
The  Poor-Slave  himself  our  Traveller  found,  as  he  says, 
broad-backed,  black-browed,  of  great  personal  strength, 
and  mouth  from  ear  to  ear.  His  Wife  was  a  sun-browned 
but  well-featured  woman;  and  his  young  ones,  bare  and 
chubby,  had  the  appetite  of  ravens.  Of  their  Philosoph- 
ical or  Religious  tenets  or  observances,  no  notice  or  hint. 
But  now,  secondly,  of  the  Dandiacal  Household: 
"A  Dressing-room  splendidly  furnished;  violet-colored 
curtains,  chairs  and  ottomans  of  the  same  hue.  Two 
full-length  Mirrors  are  placed,  one  on  each  side  of  a  table, 
which  supports  the  luxuries  of  the  Toilet.  Several  Bot- 
tles of  Perfume,  arranged  in  a  pecidiar  fashion,  stand 


The    Chasm  75 

upon  a  smaller  table  of  mother-of-pearl;  opposite  to 
these  are  placed  the  appurtenances  of  Lavation  richly 
wrought  in  frosted  silver.  A  Wardrobe  of  Buhl  is  on 
the  left;  the  doors  of  which,  being  partly  open,  discover 
a  profusion  of  Clothes;  Shoes  of  a  singularly  small  size 
monopolize  the  lower  shelves.  Fronting  the  wardrobe 
a  door  ajar  gives  some  slight  glimpse  of  the  Bathroom. 
Folding-doors  in  the  background. — "Enter  the  Author," 
our  Theogonist  in  person,  "obsequiously  preceded  by  a 
French  Valet,  in  white  silk  Jacket  and  cambric  Apron." 

Such  are  the  two  sects  which,  at  this  moment,  divide 
the  more  unsettled  portion  of  the  British  People;  and 
agitate  that  ever-vexed  country.  To  the  eye  of  the 
political  Seer,  their  mutual  relation,  pregnant  with  the 
elements  of  discord  and  hostility,  is  far  from  consoling. 
These  two  principles  of  Dandiacal  Self-worship  or  Demon- 
worship,  and  Poor-Slavish  or  Drudgical  Earth-worship, 
or  whatever  that  same  Drudgism  may  be,  do  as  yet 
indeed  manifest  themselves  under  distant  and  nowise 
considerable  shapes:  nevertheless,  in  their  roots  and 
subterranean  ramifications,  they  extend  through  the 
entire  structure  of  Society,  and  work  unweariedly  in  the 
secret  depths  of  English  national  Existence;  striving  to 
separate  and  isolate  it  into  two  contradictory,  uncom- 
municating  masses. 

In  numbers,  and  even  individual  strength,  the  Poor- 
Slaves  or  Drudges,  it  would  seem,  are  hourly  increasing. 
The  Dandiacal,  again,  is  by  nature  no  proselytizing 
Sect;  but  it  boasts  of  great  hereditary  resources,  and  is 
strong  by  union;  whereas  the  Drudges,  split  into  parties, 
have  as  yet  no  rallying-point ;  or  at  best  only  co-operate 
by  means  of  partial  secret  aMiations.     If,  indeed,  there 


The    Cry   for    Justice 


were  to  arise  a  Communion  of  Drudges,  as  there  is  already 
a  Communion  of  Saints,  what  strangest  effects  would 
follow  therefrom!  Dandyism  as  yet  affects  to  look  down 
on  Drudgism;  but  perhaps  the  hour  of  trial,  when  it 
will  be  practically  seen  which  ought  to  look  down,  and 
which  up,  is  not  so  distant. 

To  me  it  seems  probable  that  the  two  Sects  will  one 
day  part  England  between  them;  each  recruiting  itself, 
from  the  intermediate  ranks,  till  there  be  none  left  to 
enUst  on  either  side.  These  Dandiacal  Manicheans,  with 
the  host  of  Dandyizing  Christians,  will  form  one  body; 
the  Drudges,  gathering  round  them  whosoever  is  Drudg- 
ical,  be  he  Christian  or  Infidel  Pagan;  sweeping-up  like- 
wise all  manner  of  Utilitarians,  Radicals,  refractory 
Potwallopers,  and  so  forth,  into  their  general  mass,  will 
form  another.  I  could  liken  Dandyism  and  Drudgism 
to  two  bottomless  boiling  Whirlpools  that  had  broken- 
out  on  opposite  quarters  of  the  firm  land;  as  yet  they 
appear  only  disquieted,  foolishly  bubbling  wells,  which 
man's  art  might  cover-in;  yet  mark  them,  their  diameter 
is  daily  widening;  they  are  hollow  Cones  that  boil-up 
from  the  infinite  Deep,  over  which  your  firm  land  is  but 
a  thin  crust  or  rind!  Thus  daily  is  the  intermediate 
land  crumbling-in,  daily  the  empire  of  the  two  Buchan- 
Bullers  extending;  till  now  there  is  but  a  foot-plank,  a 
mere  film  of  Land  between  them;  this  too  is  washed 
away;  and  then — we  have  the  true  Hell  of  Waters,  and 
Noah's  Deluge  is  outdeluged! 

Or  better,  I  might  call  them  two  boundless,  and  indeed 
unexampled  Electric  Machines  (turned  by  the  "Machin- 
ery of  Society"),  with  batteries  of  opposite  quality; 
Drudgism  the  Negative,  Dandyism  the  Positive;  one 
attracts  hourly  towards  it  and  appropriates  all  the  Posi- 


The    Chasm  77 

tive  Electricity  of  the  nation  (namely,  the  Money  thereof)  ; 
the  other  is  equally  busy  with  the  Negative  (that  is  to 
say  the  Hunger)  which  is  equally  potent.  Hitherto  you 
see  only  partial  transient  sparkles  and  sputters;  but  wait 
a  little,  till  the  entire  nation  is  in  an  electric  state;  till 
your  whole  vital  Electricity,  no  longer  healthfully  Neu- 
tral, is  cut  into  two  isolated  portions  of  Positive  and 
Negative  (of  Money  and  of  Hunger);  and  stands  there 
bottled-up  in  two  World-Batteries!  The  stirring  of  a 
child's  finger  brings  the  two  together;  and  then — ^What 
then?  The  Earth  is  but  shivered  into  impalpable  smoke 
by  that  Doom's-thunderpeal;  the  Sun  misses  one  of  his 
Planets  in  Space,  and  thenceforth  there  are  no  eclipses  of 
the  Moon. 


By  Charles  Matjeice  de  Talleyrand 
(French  bishop  and  statesman,  1764-1838) 

SOCIETY  is  divided  into  two  classes;    the  shearers 
and  the  shorn.    We  should  always  be  with  the  former 
against  the  latter. 


By  Alfred  Tennyson 

(Probably  the  most  popular  of  English  lyrical  poets;    180&-1892. 
Made  Poet-laureate  in  1850,  and  a  baron  in  1884) 

LET  US  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind. 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  he  reclined 
On  the  hills  hke  Gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are  hurl'd 


78  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are  lightly 

curl'd 
Roimd  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleaming 

world: 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring  deeps 

and  fiery  sands, 
Clanging  fights  and  flaming  towns,  and  sinking  ships,  and 

praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  doleful 

song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of  wrong. 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are  strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring  toil. 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine  and  oil; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer— some,  'tis  whisper'd — 

down  in  hell. 


By  Charles  Kingsley 

(English  clergyman  and  novelist,  1819-1875;  founder  of  the 
Christian  Socialist  movement.  In  the  scene  here  quoted,  a  young 
University  man  is  taken  by  a  game-keeper  to  see  the  degradation 
of  Enghsh  village  Ufe) 

*  '  /^^AN'T  they  read?     Can't  they  practice  fight  and 
^-^  interesting  handicrafts  at  home,  as  the  German 
peasantry  do?" 

"Who'll  teach  'em,  sir?  From  the  plough-tail  to  the 
reaping-hook,  and  back  again,  is  all  they  know.     Besides, 


The    Chasm  79 

sir,  they  are  not  like  us  Cornish;  they  are  a  stupid  pig- 
headed generation  at  the  best,  these  south  countrymen. 
They're  grown-up  babies  who  want  the  parson  and  the 
squire  to  be  leading  them,  and  preaching  to  them,  and 
spurring  them  on,  and  coaxing  them  up,  every  moment. 
And  as  for  scholarship,  sir,  a  boy  leaves  school  at  nine 
or  ten  to  follow  the  horses;  and  between  that  time  and 
his  wedding-day  he  forgets  every  word  he  ever  learnt, 
and  becomes,  for  the  most  part,  as  thorough  a  heathen 
savage  at  heart  as  those  wild  Indians  in  the  Brazils 
used  to  be." 

"And  then  we  call  them  civilized  Englishmen!"  said 
Lancelot.  "We  can  see  that  your  Indian  is  a  savage, 
because  he  wears  skins  and  feathers;  but  your  Irish 
cotter  or  your  English  laborer,  because  he  happens  to 
wear  a  coat  and  trousers,  is  to  be  considered  a  civilized 
man." 

"It's  the  way  of  the  world,  sir,"  said  Tregarva,  "judg- 
ing carnal  judgment,  according  to  the  sight  of  its  own 
eyes;  always  looking  at  the  outsides  of  things  and  men, 
sir,  and  never  much  deeper.  But  as  for  reading,  sir,  it's 
all  very  well  for  me,  who  have  been  a  keeper  and  dawdled 
about  like  a  gentleman  with  a  gun  over  my  arm;  but 
did  you  ever  do  a  good  day's  farm-work  in  your  life? 
If  you  had,  man  or  boy,  you  wouldn't  have  been  game 
for  much  reading  when  you  got  home;  you'd  do  just 
what  these  poor  fellows  do — ^tumble  into  bed  at  eight 
o'clock,  hardly  waiting  to  take  your  clothes  off,  knowing 
that  you  must  turn  up  again  at  five  o'clock  the  next 
morning  to  get  a  breakfast  of  bread,  and,  perhaps,  a  dab 
of  the  squire's  dripping,  and  then  back  to  work  again; 
and  so  on,  day  after  day,  sir,  week  after  week,  year  after 
year,  without  a  hope  or  chance  of  being  anything  but 


80  The    Cry   for    Justice 

what  you  are,  and  only  too  thankful  if  you  can  get  work 
to  break  your  back,  and  catch  the  rheumatism  over." 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say  that  their  labor  is  so  severe 
and  incessant?" 

"It's  only  God's  blessing  if  it  is  incessant,  sir,  for  if 
it  stops,  they  starve,  or  go  to  the  house  to  be  worse  fed 
than  the  thieves  in  gaol.  And  as  for  its  being  severe, 
there's  many  a  boy,  as  their  mothers  will  tell  you,  comes 
home  night  after  night,  too  tired  to  eat  their  suppers, 
and  tumble,  fasting,  to  bed  in  the  same  foul  shirt  which 
they've  been  working  in  all  the  day,  never  changing 
their  rag  of  calico  from  week's  end  to  week's  end,  or 
washing  the  skin  that's  under  it  once  in  seven  years." 

"No  wonder,"  said  Lancelot,  "that  such  a  Hfe  of 
drudgery  makes  them  brutal  and  reckless." 

"No  wonder,  indeed,  sir:  they've  no  time  to  think; 
they're  born  to  be  machines,  and  machines  they  must 
be;  and  I  think,  sir,"  he  added  bitterly,  "it's  God's 
mercy  that  they  daren't  think.  It's  God's  mercy  that 
they  don't  feel.  Men  that  write  books  and  talk  at  elec- 
tions call  this  a  free  country,  and  say  that  the  poorest 
and  meanest  has  a  free  opening  to  rise  and  become  prime 
minister,  if  he  can.  But  you  see,  sir,  the  misfortune  is, 
that  in  practice  he  can't;  for  one  who  gets  into  a  gentle- 
man's family,  or  into  a  little  shop,  and  so  saves  a  few 
pounds,  fifty  know  that  they've  no  chance  before  them, 
but  day-laborer  born,  day-laborer  live,  from  hand  to 
mouth,  scraping  and  pinching  to  get  not  meat  and  beer 
even,  but  bread  and  potatoes;  and  then,  at  the  end  of 
it  all,  for  a  worthy  reward,  half-a-erown  a-week  of  parish 
pay — or  the  work-house.  That's  a  lively  hopeful  prospect 
for  a  Christian  man!"  .  .  . 

Into  the  booth  they  turned;  and  as  soon  as  Lancelot's 


The    Chasm  81 

eyes  were  accustomed  to  the  reeking  atmosphere,  he  saw 
seated  at  two  long  temporary  tables  of  board,  fifty  or 
sixty  of  "My  brethren,"  as  clergymen  call  them  in  their 
sermons,  wrangling,  stupid,  beery,  with  sodden  eyes  and 
drooping  lips — interspersed  with  more  girls  and  brazen- 
faced women,  with  dirty  flowers  in  their  caps,  whose 
sole  business  seemed  to  be  to  cast  jealous  looks  at  each 
other,  and  defend  themselves  from  the  coarse  overtures 
of  their  swains. 

Lancelot  had  been  already  perfectly  astonished  at  the 
foulness  of  language  which  prevailed;  and  the  utter 
absence  of  anything  like  chivalrous  respect,  almost  of 
common  decency,  towards  women.  But  lo!  the  language 
of  the  elder  women  was  quite  as  disgusting  as  that  of  the 
men,  if  not  worse.  He  whispered  a  remark  on  the  point 
to  Tregarva,  who  shook  his  head. 

"It's  the  field-work,  sir — the  field-work,  that  does  it 
all.  They  get  accustomed  there  from  their  childhood 
to  hear  words  whose  very  meanings  they  shouldn't  know; 
and  the  elder  teach  the  yoxmger  ones,  and  the  married 
ones  are  worst  of  all.  It  wears  them  out  in  body,  sir, 
that  field-work,  and  makes  them  brutes  in  soul  and  in 
manners.  .  .  ." 

Sadder  and  sadder,  Lancelot  tried  to  hsten  to  the 
conversation  of  the  men  roimd  him.  To  his  astonish- 
ment he  hardly  imderstood  a  word  of  it.  It  was  half 
articulate,  nasal,  guttural,  made  up  almost  entirely  of 
vowels,  like  the  speech  of  savages.  He  had  never  before 
been  struck  with  the  significant  contrast  between  the 
sharp,  clearly  defined  articulation,  the  vivid  and  varied 
tones  of  the  gentleman,  or  even  of  the  London  street-boy, 
when  compared  with  the  coarse,  half-formed  growls,  as 
of  a  company  of  seals,  which  he  heard  round  him.    That 

6 


82  The    Cry   for    Justice 

single  fact  struck  him,  perhaps,  more  deeply  than  any; 
it  connected  itself  with  many  of  his  physiological  fancies; 
it  was  the  parent  of  many  thoughts  and  plans  of  his  after- 
life. Here  and  there  he  could  distinguish  a  half  sentence. 
An  old  shrunken  man  opposite  him  was  drawing  figures 
in  the  spilt  beer  with  his  pipe-stem,  and  discoursing  of 
the  glorious  times  before  the  great  war,  "when  there 
was  more  food  than  there  were  mouths,  and  more  work 
than  there  were  hands."  "Poor  hmnan  nature!"  thought 
Lancelot,  as  he  tried  to  follow  one  of  those  unintelligible 
discussions  about  the  relative  prices  of  the  loaf  and  the 
bushel  of  flour,  which  ended,  as  usual,  in  more  swearing, 
and  more  quarrelling,  and  more  beer  to  make  it  up^ — 
"Poor  human  nature!  always  looking  back,  as  the  Ger- 
man sage  says,  to  some  fancied  golden  age,  never  looking 
forward  to  the  real  one  which  is  coming!" 

"But  I  say,  vather,"  drawled  out  some  one,  "they 
say  there's  a  sight  more  money  in  England  now,  than 
there  was  afore  the  war-time." 

"Eees,  booy,"  said  the  old  man;  "but  it's  got  into 
too  few  hands." 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "there's  a  glimpse  of  prac- 
tical sense,  at  least."  And  a  pedler  who  sat  next  him, 
a  bold,  black-whiskered  bully  from  the  Potteries,  hazarded 
a  joke — 

"It's  all  along  of  this  new  sky-and-tough-it  farming. 
They  used  to  spread  the  money  broad  cast,  but  now 
they  drills  it  all  in  one  place,  like  bone-dust  under  their 
fancy  plants,  and  we  poor  self-sown  chaps  gets  none." 

This  garland  of  fancies  was  received  with  great  applause; 
whereat  the  pedler,  emboldened,  proceeded  to  observe, 
mysteriously,  that  "donkeys  took  a  beating,  but  horses 
kicked  at  it;   and  that  they'd  found  out  that  in  Stafford- 


The    Chasm  83 

shire  long  ago.  You  want  a  good  Chartist  lecturer  down 
here,  my  covies,  to  show  you  donkeys  of  laboring  men 
that  you  have  got  iron  on  your  heels,  if  you  only  knowed 
how  to  use  it.  ..." 

Blackbird  was  by  this  time  prevailed  on  to  sing,  and 
burst  out  as  melodious  as  ever,  while  all  heads  were 
cocked  on  one  side  in  delighted  attention. 

"I  zeed  a  vire  o'  Monday  night, 

A  Adre  both  great  and  high; 
But  I  wool  not  tell  you  where,  my  boys, 

Nor  wool  not  tell  you  why. 
The  varmer  he  comes  screeching  out. 

To  zave  'uns  new  brood  mare ; 
Zays  I,  'You  and  your  stock  may  roast, 

Vor  aught  us  poor  chaps  care.' 

"Coorus,  boys,  coorus!" 
And  the  chorus  burst  out — 

"Then  here's  a  curse  on  varmers  all 

As  rob  and  grind  the  poor; 
To  re'p  the  fruit  of  all  their  works 

In  ■ for  evermoor-r-r-r. 

"A  blind  owld  dame  come  to  the  vire, 

Zo  near  as  she  could  get; 
Zays,  '  Here's  a  luck  I  warn't  asleep. 

To  lose  this  blessed  hett. 
They  robs  us  of  our  turfing  rights 

Our  bits  of  chips  and  sticks. 
Till  poor  folks  now  can't  warm  their  hands, 

Except  by  varmers'  ricks.' 

"Then,  etc." 


84  The    Cry  for   Justice 

And  again  the  boy's  delicate  voice  rang  out  the  ferocious 
chorus,  with  something,  Lancelot  fancied,  of  'fiendish 
exultation,  and  every  worn  face  lighted  up  with  a  coarse 
laugh,  that  indicated  no  mahce — but  also  no  mercy.  .  .  . 

Lancelot  almost  ran  out  into  the  night — into  a  triad  ' 
of  fights,  two  drunken  men,  two  jealous  wives,  and  a 
brute  who  struck  a  poor,   thin,   worn-out  woman,   for 
trying  to  coax  him  home.     Lancelot  rushed  up  to  inter- 
fere, but  a  man  seized  his  uplifted  arm. 

"He'll  only  beat  her  all  the  more  when  he  getteth 
home." 

"She  has  stood  that  every  Saturday  night  for  the 
last  seven  years,  to  my  knowledge,"  said  Tregarva; 
"and  worse,  too,  at  times." 

"Good  God!  is  there  no  escape  for  her  from  her  tyrant?" 

"No,  sir.  It's  only  you  gentlefolks  who  can  afford 
such  luxuries;  your  poor  man  may  be  tied  to  a  harlot, 
or  your  poor  woman  to  a  ruffian,  but  once  done,  done 
for  ever." 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "we  English  have  a  char- 
acteristic way  of  proving  the  holiness  of  the  marriage 
tie.  The  angel  of  Justice  and  Pity  cannot  sever  it,  only 
the  stronger  demon  of  Money." 


SLlton  Eocfef 

By  Charles  Kingsley 
(See  page  78) 

*  *"\T /"HAT!"  shriek  the  insulted  respectabilities,  "have 

*  '     we  not  paid  him  his  wages  weekly,  and  has  he 

not  lived  upon  them?"     Yes;    and  have  you  not  given 

your  sheep  and  horses  their  dai  y  wages,  and  have  they 


The    Chasm  86 

not  lived  on  them?  You  wanted  to  work  them;  and 
they  could  not  work,  you  knew,  imless  they  were  alive. 
But  here  hes  your  iniquity;  you  have  given  the  laborer 
nothing  but  his  daily  food — ^not  even  his  lodgings;  'the 
pigs  were  not  stinted  of  their  wash  to  pay  for  their  sty- 
room,  the  man  was;  and  his  wages,  thanks  to  your  com- 
petitive system,  were  beaten  down  deliberately  and  con- 
scientiously (for  was  it  not  according  to  political  econ- 
omy, and  the  laws  thereof?)  to  the  minimmn  on  which  he 
could  or  would  work,  without  the  hope  or  the  possibility 
of  saving  a  farthing.  You  know  how  to  invest  your 
capital  profitably,  dear  Society,  and  to  save  money  over 
and  above  your  income  of  daily  comforts;  but  what  has 
he  saved? — ^what  is  he  profited  by  all  those  years  of  labor? 
He  has  kept  body  and  soul  together — perhaps  he  could 
have  done  that  without  you  or  your  help.  But  his  wages 
are  used  up  every  Saturday  night.  When  he  stops  work- 
ing, you  have  in  your  pocket  the  whole  profits  of  his 
nearly  fifty  years'  labor,  and  he  has  nothing.  And 
then  you  say  that  you  have  not  eaten  him! 


By  Edward  Bellamy 

(One  of  the  classics  of  the  Socialist  movement,  this  book  sold  over 

four  hundred  thousand  copies  in  the  &st  years  of  its  publication. 

Its  author  was  an  American  school-teacher,  1850-1898) 

BY  way  of  attempting  to  give  the  reader  some  general 
impression  of  the  way  people  lived  together  in  those 
days,  and  especially  of  the  relations  of  the  rich  and  poor 
to  one  another,  perhaps  I  cannot  do  better  than  compare 


86  The    Cry   for    Justice 

society  as  it  then  was  to  a  prodigious  coach  which  the 
masses  of  humanity  were  harnessed  to  and  dragged  toil- 
somely along  a  very  hilly  and  sandy  road.  The  driver 
was  hunger,  and  permitted  no  lagging,  though  the  pace 
was  necessarily  very  slow.  Despite  the  difficulty  of  draw- 
ing the  coach  at  all  along  so  hard  a  road,  the  top  was 
covered  with  passengers  who  never  got  down,  even  at 
the  steepest  ascents.  The  seats  on  top  were  very  breezy 
and  comfortable.  Well  up  out  of  the  dust  their  occupants 
could  enjoy  the  scenery  at  their  leism-e,  or  critically  dis- 
cuss the  merits  of  the  straining  team.  Naturally  such 
places  were  in  great  demand  and  the  competition  for 
them  was  keen,  every  one  seeking  as  the  first  end  in  life 
to  secure  a  seat  on  the  coach  for  himself  and  to  leave 
it  to  his  child  after  him.  By  the  rule  of  the  coach  a  man 
could  leave  his  seat  to  whom  he  Avished,  but  on  the  other 
hand  there  were  many  accidents  by  which  it  might  at 
any  time  be  wholly  lost.  For  all  that  they  were  so  easy, 
the  seats  were  very  Lasecure,  and  at  every  sudden. jolt 
of  the  coach  persons  were  slipping  out  of  them  and  fall- 
ing to  the  ground,  where  they  were  instantly  compelled 
to  take  hold  of  the  rope  and  help  to  drag  the  coach  on 
which  they  had  before  ridden  so  pleasantly.  It  was 
naturally  regarded  as  a  terrible  misfortune  to  lose  one's 
seat,  and  the  apprehension  that  this  might  happen  to 
them  or  their  friends  was  a  constant  cloud  upon  the 
happiness  of  those  who  rode. 

But  did  they  think  only  of  themselves?  you  ask.  Was 
not  their  very  luxm-y  rendered  intolerable  to  them  by 
comparison  with  the  lot  of  their  brothers  and  sifters  in 
the  harness,  and  the  knowledge  that  their  own  weight 
added  to  their  toil!  Had  they  no  compassion  for  fellow 
beings  from  whom  fortune  only  distinguished  them?    Oh, 


The    Chasm  87 

yes;  commiseration  was  frequently  expressed  by  those 
who  rode  for  those  who  had  to  pull  the  coach,  especially 
when  the  vehicle  came  to  a  bad  place  in  the  road,  as  it 
was  constantly  doing,  or  to  a  particularly  steep  hill.  At 
such  times,  the  desperate  straining  of  the  team,  their 
agonized  leaping  and  plunging  under  the  pitiless  lashing 
of  hunger,  the  many  who  fainted  at  the  rope  and  were 
trampled  in  the  mire,  made  a  very  distressing  spectacle, 
which  often  called  forth  highly  creditable  displays  of 
feeling  on  the  top  of  the  coach.  At  such  times  the  pas- 
sengers would  call  down  encouragingly  to  the  toilers  of 
the  rope,  exhorting  them  to  patience,  and  holding  out 
hopes  of  possible  compensation  in  another  world  for  the 
hardness  of  their  lot,  while  others  contributed  to  buy 
salves  and  liniments  for  the  crippled  and  injured.  It 
was  agreed  that  it  was  a  great  pity  that  the  coach  should 
be  so  hard  to  pull,  and  there  was  a  sense  of  general  relief 
when  the  specially  bad  piece  of  road  was  gotten  over. 
This  relief  was  not,  indeed,  wholly  on  account  of  the 
team,  for  there  was  always  some  danger  at  these  bad 
places  of  a  general  overturn  in  which  all  would  lose  their 
seats. 

It  must  in  truth  be  admitted  that  the  main  effect  of 
the  spectacle  of  the  misery  of  the  toilers  at  the  rope  was 
to  enhance  the  passengers'  sense  of  the  value  of  their 
seats  upon  the  coach,  and  to  cause  them  to  hold  on  to 
them  more  desperately  than  before.  If  the  passengers 
could  only  have  felt  assured  that  neither  they  nor  their 
friends  would  ever  fall  from  the  top,  it  is  probable  that, 
beyond  contributing  to  the  funds  for  liniments  and 
bandages,  they  would  have  troubled  themselves  extremely 
little  about  those  who  dragged  the  coach. 


88  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Hicfi  and  ^9oor 

By  Leo  Tolstoy 

(Russian  novelist  and  reformer,  1828-1910) 

THE  present  position  which  we,  the  educated  and  well- 
to-do  classes,  occupy,  is  that  of  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea,  riding  on  the  poor  man's  back;  only,  unlike  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea,  we  are  very  sorry  for  the  poor  man, 
very  sorry;  and  we  will  do  almost  anything  for  the  poor 
man's  relief.  We  will  not  only  supply  him  with  food 
sufficient  to  keep  him  on  his  legs,  but  we  will  teach  and 
instruct  him  and  point  out  to  him  the  beauties  of  the 
landscape;  we  will  discourse  sweet  music  to  him  and  give 
him  abundance  of  good  advice. 

Yes,  we  will  do  almost  anything  for  the  poor  man, 
anything  but  get  off  his  back. 


By  Charles  Dickens 

(Celebrated  English  novelist,  1812-1870.     The  novel  here  quoted 

deals  with  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  scene  narrates  how 

one  of  Monseigneur's  guests  drives  away  from  the  palace) 

NOT  many  people  had  talked  with  him  at  the  recep- 
tion; he  had  stood  in  a  little  space  apart,  and 
Monseigneur  might  have  been  warmer  in  his  manner. 
It  appeared  under  the  circumstances,  rather  agreeable 
to  him  to  see  the  common  people  dispersed  before  hit; 
horses,  and  often  barely  escaping  from  being  run  down. 
His  man  drove  as  if  he  were  charging  an  enemy,  and  the 


The    Chasm  89 

furious  recklessness  of  the  man  brought  no  check  into  the 
face,  or  to  the  lips,  of  the  master.  The  complaint  had 
sometimes  made  itself  audible,  even  in  that  deaf  city 
and  dumb  age,  that,  in  the  narrow  streets  without  foot- 
ways, the  fierce  patrician  custom  of  hard  driving  endan- 
gered and  maimed  the  mere  vulgar  in  a  barbarous  manner. 
But  few  cared  enough  for  that  to  think  of  it  a  second 
time,  and,  in  this  matter,  as  in  all  others,  the  conunon 
wretches  were  left  to  get  out  of  their  difiiculties  as  they 
could. 

With  a  wild  rattle  and  clatter,  and  an  inhuman  aban- 
donment of  consideration  not  easy  to  be  understood  in 
these  days,  the  carriage  dashed  through  streets  and  swept 
round  corners,  with  women  screaming  before  it,  and  men 
clutching  each  other  and  clutching  children  out  of  its 
way.  At  last,  swooping  at  a  street  corner  by  a  foun- 
tain, one  of  its  wheels  came  to  a  sickening  little  jolt, 
and  there  was  a  loud  cry  from  a  number  of  voices,  and 
the  horses  reared  and  plunged. 

But  for  the  latter  inconvenience,  the  carriage  probably 
would  not  have  stopped;  carriages  were  often  known  to 
drive  on,  and  leave  their  wounded  behind,  and  why  not? 
But  the  frightened  valet  had  got  down  in  a  hurry,  and 
there  were  twenty  hands  at  the  horses'  bridles. 

"What  has  gone  wrong?"  said  Monsieur,  calmly  look- 
ing out. 

A  tall  man  in  a  nightcap  had  caught  up  a  bundle  from 
among  the  feet  of  the  horses,  and  had  laid  it  on  the 
basement  of  the  fountain,  and  was  down  in  the  mud  and 
wet,  howling  over  it  like  a  wild  animal. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  the  Marquis!"  said  a  ragged  and 
submissive  man,  "it  is  a  child." 

"Why  does  he  make  that  abominable  noise?  Is  it 
his  child?" 


90  The    Cry  for    Justice 

"Excuse  me,  Monsieur  the  Marquis — it  is  a  pity — ^yes." 

The  fountain  was  a  little  removed;  for  the  street 
opened,  where  it  was,  into  a  space  some  ten  or  twelve 
yards  square.  As  the  tall  man  suddenly  got  up  from 
the  ground,  and  came  running  at  the  carriage,  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  clapped  his  hand  for  an  instant  on  his  swotd- 
hilt. 

"Killed!"  shrieked  the  man,  in  wild  desperation,  ex- 
tending both  arms  at  their  length  above  his  head,  and 
staring  at  him.     "Dead!" 

The  people  closed  round,  and  looked  at  Monsieur  the 
Marquis.  There  was  nothing  revealed  by  the  many  eyes 
that  looked  at  him  but  watchfulness  and  eagerness;  there 
was  no  visible  menacing  or  anger.  Neither  did  the 
people  say  anything;  after  the  first  cry,  they  had  been 
silent,  and  they  remained  so.  The  voice  of  the  submis- 
sive man  who  had  spoken,  was  flat  and  tame  in  its  extreme 
submission.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  ran  his  eyes  over 
them  all,  as  if  they  had  been  mere  rats  come  out  of  their 
holes. 

He  took  out  his  purse.^ 

"It  is  extraordinary  to  me,"  said  he,  "that  you  people 
cannot  take  care  of  yourselves  and  your  children.  One 
or  the  other  of  you  is  for  ever  in  the  way.  How  do  I 
know  what  injury  you  have  done  my  horses.  See!  Give 
him  that." 

He  threw  out  a  gold  coin  for  the  valet  to  pick  up, 
and  all  the  heads  craned  forward  that  all  the  eyes  might 
look  down  at  it  as  it  fell.  The  tall  man  called  out  again 
with  a  most  unearthly  cry,  "Dead!" 


The    Chasm  91 

By  Emile  Zola 

(French  novelist,  1840-1902,  founder  of  the  school  of  "Natural- 
ism." The  present  is  one  of  his  later  works,  in  which  he  indicates  his 
hope  of  the  regeneration  of  French  society.  The  hero  is  a  Cathohc 
priest  who  first  attempts  to  reform  the  Church,  and  then  leaves  it) 

T3IERRE  remembered  that  frightful  house  in  the  Rue 
■'-  des  Saules,  where  so  much  want  and  suffering  were 
heaped  up.  He  saw  again  the  yard  filthy  like  a  quag- 
mire, the  evil-smelling  staircases,  the  sordid,  bare,  icy 
rooms,  the  families  fighting  for  messes  which  even  stray 
dogs  would  not  have  eaten;  the  mothers,  with  exhausted 
breasts,  carrying  screaming  children  to  and  fro;  the  old 
men  who  fell  in  comers  like  brute  beasts,  and  died  of 
hunger  amidst  filth.  And  then  came  his  other  hours 
with  the  magnificence  or  the  quietude  or  the  gaiety  of 
the  salons  through  which  he  had  passed,  the  whole  inso- 
lent display  of  financial  Paris,  and  political  Paris,  and 
society  Paris.  And  at  last  he  came  to  the  dusk,  and  to 
that  Paris-Sodom  and  Paris-Gomorrah  before  him,  which 
was  lighting  itself  up  for  the  night,  for  the  abominations 
of  that  accomplice  night  which,  like  fine  dust,  was  little 
by  little  submerging  the  expanse  of  roofs.  And  the 
hateful  monstrosity  of  it  all  howled  aloud  mider  the  pale 
sky  where  the  first  pure,  twinkling  stars  were  gleaming. 

A  great  shudder  came  upon  Pierre  as  he  thought  of 
all  that  mass  of  iniquity  and  suffering,  of  all  that  went 
on  below  amid  wealth  and  vice.  The  bourgeoisie,  wielding 
power,  would  relinquish  naught  of  the  sovereignty  which  it 
had  conquered,  wholly  stolen;  while  the  people,  the  eternal 
dupe,  silent  so  long,  clenched  its  fists  and  growled,  claim- 
ing its  legitimate  share.     And  it  was  that  frightful  injus- 


92  The    Cry   for    Justice 

tice  which  filled  the  growing  gloom  with  anger.  From 
what  dark-breasted  cloud  would  the  thimderbolt  fall? 
For  years  he  had  been  waiting  for  that  thimderbolt,  which 
low  rumbles  announced  on  all  points  of  the  horizon. 
And  if  he  had  written  a  book  full  of  candour  and  hope, 
if  he  had  gone  in  all  innocence  to  Rome,  it  was  to  avert 
that  thunderbolt  and  its  frightful  consequences.  But 
all  hope  of  the  kind  was  dead  within  him;  he  felt  that  the 
thunderbolt  was  inevitable,  that  nothing  henceforth 
could  stay  the  catastrophe.  And  never  before  had  he 
felt  it  to  be  so  near,  amidst  the  happy  impudence  of 
some,  and  the  exasperated  distress  of  others.  It  was 
gathering,  and  it  would  surely  fall  over  that  Paris,  all 
lust  and  bravado,  which,  when  evening  came,  thus  stirred 
up  its  furnace. 

Mm  ^ttngw 

By  Leonid  Andeeyev 

(Russian  novelist  and  dramatist  of  social  protest;  born  1871. 
In  this  grim  symbolical  drama  is  voiced  the  despair  of  Russia's 
intellectuals  after  the  tragic  failure  of  the  Revolution.  In  the 
first  scene  King  Hunger  is  shown  inciting  the  starving  factory- 
slaves  to  revolt;  in  the  second,  he  presides  over  a  gathering  of  the 
outcasts  of  society,  who  meet  in  a  cellar  to  discuss  projects  of 
ferocious  vengeance  upon  the  idlers  in  the  baU-room  over  their 
heads,  but  break  up  in  a  drimken  brawl  instead.  In  the  present 
scene,  King  Hunger  tiirns  traitor  to  his  victims,  and  presides  as 
a  judge  passing  sentence  upon  them.  The  leisure  class  attend  as 
spectators  in  the  court-room,  the  women  in  evening  gowns  and 
jewels,  "the  men  in  dress  coats  and  surtouts,  carefully  shaven  and 
dressed  at  the  wig-makers") 

Ty'ING  HUNGER:— Show  in  the  first  starveling. 
■'■  ^     {The  first  starveling,  a  ragged  old  man  with  lacer- 
ated feet,  is  conducted  into  the  court-room.     A  wire  muz- 
zle encases  his  face.) 


The    Chasm  93 

King  Hunger: — Take  the  muzzle  off  the  starvehng. 
What's  your  offense,  Starveling? 

Old  Man  {speaking  in  a  broken  voice): — Theft. 

King  Hunger: — ^How  much  did  you  steal? 

Old  Man  : — I  stole  a  five-potind  loaf,  but  it  was  wrested 
from  me.  I  had  only  time  to  bite  a  small  piece  of  it. 
Forgive  me,  I  will  never  again 

King  Hunger: — How?  Have  you  acquired  an  inherit- 
ance?    Or  won't  you  eat  hereafter? 

Old  Man: — ^No.  It  was  wrested  from  me.  I  only 
chewed  off  a  small  piece 

King  Hunger: — But  how  won't  you  steal?  Why 
haven't  you  been  working? 

Old  Man: — There's  no  work. 

King  Hunger: — But  where's  your  brood,  Starveling? 
Why  don't  they  support  you? 

Old  Man: — My  children  died  of  hunger. 

King  Hunger: — ^Why  did  you  not  starve  to  death, 
as  they? 

Old  Man: — I  don't  know.     I  had  a  mind  to  live. 

King  Hunger: — Of  what  use  is  hfe  to  you.  Starveling? 

(Voices  of  Spectators.) 

— Indeed,  how  do  they  live?     I  don't  comprehend  it. 

— To  work. 

— To  glorify  God  and  be  confirmed  in  the  consciousness 
that  life— 

— Well,  I  don't  suppose  they  exalt  Him. 

— It  were  better  if  he  were  dead. 

— A  rather  wearisome  old  fellow.  And  what  style  of 
trousers! 

— Listen!  Listen! 

King  Hunger  (rising,  speaks  aloud): — Now,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  we  will  feign  to  meditate.  Honorable  judges, 
I  beg  you  to  simulate  a  meditative  air. 


QJf.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

{The  judges  for  a  brief  period  appear  in  deep  thought— 
they  knit  their  brows,  gaze  up  at  the  ceiling,  prop  up  their 
noses,  sigh  and  obviously  endeavor  to  think.  Venerable 
silence.  Then  with  faces  profoundly  solemn  and  earnest, 
silent  as  before,  the  judges  rise,  and  simultaneously  they 
turn  around  facing  Death.  And  all  together  they  bow  low 
and  lingering,  stretching  themselves  forward.) 

King  Hunger  {mth  bent  head) : — What  is  your  pleasure? 

Death  (swiftly  rising,  wrathfully  strikes  the  table  with 
his  clenched  fist  and  speaks  in  a  grating  voice): — Con- 
demned— in  the  name  of  Satan! 

(Then  as  quickly  he  sits  down  and  sinks  into  a  malicious 
inflexibility.     The  judges  resume  their  places.) 

King  Hunger: — Starveling,  you're  condemned. 

Old  Man: — Have  mercy! 

King  Hunger: — Put  the  muzzle  over  him.  Bring 
the  next  starveling.  .  .  . 

(The  next  starveling  is  led  into  the  room.  She  is  a 
graceful,  but  extremely  emaciated  young  woman,  with  a  face 
pallid  and  tragic  to  view.  The  black,  fine  eyebrows  join 
over  her  nose;  her  luxuriant  hair  is  negligently  tied  in  a 
knot,  falling  down  her  shoulders.  She  makes  no  bows  nor 
looks  around,  is  as  if  seeing  nobody.  Her  voice  is  apathetic 
and  dull.) 

King  Hunger: — ^What's  your  offense,  Starveling? 

Young  Woman: — I  killed  my  child. 

((Spectators.) 

— Oh,  horrors!  This  woman  is  altogether  destitute  of 
motherly  feelings. 

— What  do  you  expect  of  them?     You  astonish  me. 

— How  charming  she  is.  There's  something  tragical 
about  her. 

— Then  marry  her. 


The    Chasm  95 

— Crimes  of  infanticide  were  not  regarded  as  such  in 
ancient  times,  and  were  looked  upon  as  a  natural  right 
of  parents.  Only  with  the  introduction  of  humanism 
into  our  customs 

— Oh,  please,  just  a  second,  professor. 

— ^But  science,  my  child 

King  Hunger: — ^Tell  us.  Starveling,  how  it  happened. 

(J^iih  drooping  hands  and  motionless,  the  woman  speaks 
up  dully  and  dispassionately.) 

Young  Woman: — One  night  my  baby  and  I  crossed 
the  long  bridge  over  the  river.  And  since  I  had  long 
before  decided,  so  then  approaching  the  middle,  where 
the  river  is  deep  and  swift,  I  said:  "Look,  baby  dear, 
how  the  water  is  a-roaring  below."  She  said,  "I  can't 
reach,  mamma,  the  railing  is  so  high."  I  said,  "Come, 
let  me  lift  you,  baby  dear."  And  when  she  was  gazing 
down  into  the  black  deep,  I  threw  her  over.     That's  all. 

King  Hunger: — Did  she  grip  you? 

Young  Woman: — No. 

King  Hunger: — She  screamed? 

Young  Woman: — Yes,  once. 

King  Hunger: — ^What  was  her  name? 

Young  Woman: — Baby  dear. 

King  Hunger: — ^No,  her  name.     How  was  she  called? 

Young  Woman: — ^Baby  dear. 

King  Hunger  (covering  his  face,  he  speaks  in  sad, 
quivering  voice): — Honorable  judges,  I  beg  you  to  simu- 
late a  meditative  air.  (The  judges  knit  their  brows,  gaze 
on  the  ceiling,  chew  their  lips.  Venerable  silence.  Then 
they  rise  and  gravely  bow  to  Death.) 

Death: — Condemned — in  the  name  of  Satan! 

King  Hunger  (rising,  speaks  aloud,  extending  his  hands 
to  the  woman,  as  if  veiling  her  in  an  invisible,  black  shroud) : — 


96  The    Cry   for    Justice 

You're  condemned,  woman,  do  you  hear?  Death  awaits 
you.  In  blackest  hell  you  will  be  tormented  and  burnt  on 
everlasting,  slakeless  fires!  Devils  will  rack  your  heart 
with  their  iron  talons!  The  most  venomous  serpents  of 
the  infernal  abyss  will  suck  your  brain  and  sting,  sting 
you,  and  nobody  will  heed  your  agonizing  cries,  for 
you'll  be  silenced.  Let  eternal  night  be  over  you.  Do 
you  hear,  Starveling? 

Young  Woman: — ^Yes. 

King  Hunger: — Muzzle  her. 

{The  starveling  is  led  away.  King  Hunger  addresses  the 
spectators  in  a  frank  and  joyous  manner.)  Now,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  I  propose  recess  for  luncheon.  Adjudi- 
cation is  a  fatiguing  affair,  and  we  need  to  invigorate 
ourselves.  (Gallantly.)  Especially  our  charming  matrons 
and  the  young  ladies.     Please! 

(Joyful  exclamations.) 

—To  dine!    To  dine! 

— 'Tis  about  time! 

—Mamma  dear,  where  are  the  bonbons? 

— Yoiu'  little  mind  is  only  on  bonbons! 

— Which — ^is  tried?    (Waking  up.) 

— Dinner  is  ready.  Your  Excellency. 

— ^Ah!    Why  didn't  you  wake  me  up  before? 

(Everything  assumes  at  once  a  happy,  amiable,  homelike 
aspect.  The  judges  pull  off  their  wigs,  exposing  their  bald 
heads,  and  gradually  they  lose  themselves  in  the  crowd, 
shake  hands,  and  with  feigned  indifference  they  look  askance, 
contemplating  the  dining.  Portly  waiters  in  rich  liveries, 
with  difficulty  and  bent  under  the  weight  of  immense  dishes, 
bring  gigantic  portions;  whole  mutton  trunks,  colossal 
hams,  high,  mountain-like  roasts.  Before  the  stout  man, 
on  a  low  stool,  they  place  a  whole  roasted  pig,  which  is  brought 
in  by  three.    Doubtful,  he  looks  at  it.) 


The    Chasm  97 

— Would  you  assist  me,  Professor? 

— ^With  pleasure,  Your  Excellency. 

— And  you.  Honorable  Judge? 

— Although  I  am  not  himgry — but  with  your  leave — 

— I  may,  perhaps,  be  suffered  to — (the  Abbot  modestly 
speaks,  his  mouth  watering.) 

{The  four  seat  themselves  about  the  pig  and  silently  they 
carve  it  greedily  with  their  knives.  Occasionally  the  eyes  of 
the  Professor  and  of  the  Abbot  meet,  and  with  swollen  cheeks, 
powerless  to  chew,  they  are  smitten  with  reciprocal  hatred 
and  contempt.  Then  choking,  they  ardently  champ  on. 
Everywhere  small  groups  eating.  Death  produces  a  dry 
cheese  sandwich  from  his  pocket  and  eats  in  solitude.  A 
heavy  conversation  of  full-crammed  mouths.    Munching.) 


Eontron 

By  Heinrich  Heine 

(German  poet  and  essasTst,  one  of  the  most  musical  and  moat 
mihappy  of  singers;   1797-1856) 

IT  is  in  the  dusky  twilight  that  Poverty  with  her  mates, 
Vice  and  Crime,  gUde  forth  from  their  lairs.  They 
shim  daylight  the  more  anxiously,  the  more  cruelly  their 
wretchedness  contrasts  with  the  pride  of  wealth  which 
gutters  everywhere;  only  Hunger  sometimes  drives  them 
at  noonday  from  their  dens,  and  then  they  stand  with 
silent,  speaking  eyes,  staring  beseechingly  at  the  rich 
merchant  who  hurries  along,  busy  and  jingling  gold,  or 
at  the  lazy  lord  who,  like  a  surfeited  god,  rides  by  on  his 
high  horse,  casting  now  and  then  an  aristocratically  in- 
different glance  at  the  mob  below,  as  though  they  were 
swarming  ants,  or,  at  all  events,  a  mass  of  baser  beings, 


98  The    Cry   for    Justice 

whose  joys  and  sorrows  have  nothing  in  common  with 
his  feelings.  .  .  . 

Poor  Poverty!  how  agonizing  must  thy  hmiger  be 
where  others  swell  in  scornful  superfluity!  And  when 
some  one  casts  with  indifferent  hand  a  crust  into  thy 
Jap,  how  bitter  must  the  tears  be  wherewith  thou  moist- 
enest  it!  Thou  poisonest  thyself  with  thine  own  tears. 
Well  art  thou  in  the  right  when  thou  alliest  thyself  to 
Vice  and  Crime.  Outlawed  criminals  often  bear  more 
humanity  in  their  hearts  than  those  cold,  blameless 
citizens  of  virtue,  in  whose  white  hearts  the  power  of 
evil  is  quenched;  but  also  the  power  of  good.  I  have 
seen  women  on  whose  cheeks  red  vice  was  painted,  and 
in  whose  hearts  dwelt  heavenly  purity. 


By  William  Blake 

(English  poet  and  painter  of  strange  and  terrible  visions. 
1757-1827) 

T   WANDER  through  each  chartered  street, 
■'■     Near  where  the  chartered  Thames  does  flow; 
A  mark  in  every  face  I  meet, 

Marks  of  weakness,  marks  of  woe. 

In  every  cry  of  every  man. 

In  every  infant's  cry  of  fear. 
In  every  voice,  in  every  ban. 

The  mind-forged  manacles  I  hear: 

How  the  chimney-sweeper's  cry 

Every  blackening  church  appals, 
And  the  hapless  soldier's  sigh 

Rims  in  blood  down  palace-walls. 


The    Chasm  99 

But  most,  through  midnight  streets  I  hear 

How  the  youthful  harlot's  curse 
Blasts  the  new-born  infant's  tear, 

And  blights  with  plagues  the  marriage-hearse. 


a  JLitt  for  a  %iU* 

By  Robert  Herrick 

(American  novelist,  professor  in  tlie  University  of  Chicago;  born 
1868.  In  this  novel  a  young  American,  hungering  for  success  and 
about  to  marry  the  daughter  a  great  captain  of  industry,  is  taken 
by  a  strange  man,  "the  bearded  Anarch,"  and  shown  the  horrors  of 
American  industrialism) 

And  thus  this  strange  pilgrimage,  like  another  descent 
-'*■  into  purgatory  and  even  unto  hell,  continued, — ^the 
shabby  bearded  Anarch  leading  his  companion  from 
factory,  warehouse,  and  mill  to  mine  and  railroad  and 
shop,  teaching  him  by  the  sight  of  his  own  eyes  what 
life  means  to  the  silent  multitude  upon  whose  bent  shoul- 
ders the  fabric  of  society  rests, — ^what  that  "life,  liberty 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness" — ^brave  aspirations  of  the 
forefathers — has  brought  to  the  common  man  in  this 
land  of  destiny  and  desire. 

The  wanderer  breathed  the  deadly  fumes  of  smelter 
and  glass  works,  saw  where  men  were  burned  in  great 
converters,  or  torn  limb  from  limb  upon  the  whirliag 
teeth  of  swift  machines, — done  to  death  in  this  way  and 
that,  or  maimed  and  cast  useless  upon  the  rubbish  heap 
of  humanity, — ^waste  product  of  the  process. 

"For,"  as  his  guide  repeated,  "in  this  coimtry,  where 
Property  is  sacred,  nothing  is  cheaper  than  himian  life. 
For,  remember,  the  supply  of  raw  labor  is  inexhaustible." 

*  By  permission  of  the  Macmijlan  Co. 


100  The    Cry   for    Justice 

He  recalled  the  words  of  a  sleek  and  comfortable  man 
of  business,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  with  his  good  dinner 
comfortably  in  his  belly  and  a  fat  cigar  between  his  lips: 
"There's  too  much  sentimentalism  in  the  air.  Some 
religion  less  effeminate  than  Christ's  is  needed  to  fit  the 
facts  of  life.  In  the  struggle  the  weak  must  go  under, 
and  it  is  a  crime  to  interfere  with  natural  law."  The 
weak  must  go  imder!  Surely  if  that  were  the  law,  any 
religion  that  would  offer  an  anodyne  to  the  hopeless  were 
a  blessing.  But  again  and  again  the  question  rose  unan- 
swered to  his  lips, — who  are  the  weak?  And  the  sleek 
one  with  his  cigar  said,  "Those  who  go  under!"  .  .  . 

So  they  passed  on  their  way  through  squalid  factory 
towns  reeking  with  human  vice  and  disease,  through  the 
network  of  railroad  terminals  crowded  with  laden  cars 
rolling  forth  to  satisfy  desires.  They  loitered  in  busy 
city  stores,  in  dim  basement  holes  where  bread  and 
clothes  were  making,  in  filthy  slaughter-houses  where 
beasts  were  slain  by  beasts.  .  .  . 

At  simset  of  a  glowing  day  the  two  sat  upon  an  upper 
ridge  of  the  hills.  All  the  imperial  colors  of  the  firma- 
ment dyed  the  western  heavens  among  the  broken  peaks 
of  the  mountains.  Below  in  the  lonely  valleys  were  the 
excoriations  of  the  mines,  the  refuse,  the  smudged  stains 
of  the  rough  surface  of  the  earth.  The  guide  pointed 
into  the  distance  where  the  huge  smelter  of  Senator 
•Dexter's  mine  sent  a  yellow  cloud  upward. 

"Near  that  is  the  charred  debris  where  the  miners 
blew  up  the  old  works.  Below  the  brow  of  yonder  hills 
lies  that  stockade  'where  miners,  with  their  women  and 
children,  were  penned  for  weeks  like  wild  animals,  guarded 
by  the  troops  of  the  nation.  Beyond  is  the  edge  of  the 
great   desert,   into   whose   waterless  waste   others   were 


The    Chasm  101 

driven  to  their  death.  Of  these  I  was  one  that  escaped. 
Men  were  shot  and  women  raped.  But  I  tell  over  old 
tales  known  to  all.  In  this  place  it  has  been  truly  a  life 
for  a  life  according  to  the  primitive  text — ^but  more 
honest  than  the  cunning  and  hidden  ways  of  the  law. 
Here  the  eaten  is  face  to  face,  at  least,  with  the  eater." 

The  twilight  came  down  like  a  curtain,  hiding  the 
scars  of  man's  dominion  over  the  earth.  The  two  sat 
in  silent  thought.  This  was  the  apex  of  their  journey 
together,  and  the  end.  Behind  this  lofty  table-land  of 
the  continent  began  the  grim  desert,  not  yet  subdued 
by  man,  and  beyond  came  other  fertile  valleys  and  other 
moimtains,  and  finally  another  ocean.  Thither  had  been 
carried  the  same  civilization,  the  same  spirit  of  conquest 
and  greed,  and  that  noble  aspiration  after  "life,  hberty, 
and  the  pm-suit  of  happiness"  bore  the  same  fruit  in  the 
blood  of  man.  Wherever  the  victorious  race  had  forced 
its  way,  it  sowed  the  seeds  of  hate  and  industrial  crime. 
And  the  flower  must  bloom,  early  or  late,  upon  the  lonely 
cattle  ranch,  in  the  primeval  forest,  the  soft  southern 
grove,  or  the  virgin  valley  of  the  "promised  land." 

Thus  spoke  the  Anarch. 

In  the  glimmering  twilight  the  fierce  eyes  of  the  bearded 
one  rested  upon  the  wanderer. 

"Have  you  seen  enough?" 

"Enough!  God  knows." 

"So  at  last  you  understand  the  meaning  of  it  all!" 

"Not  yet!"  And  from  the  depth  of  his  being  there 
flashed  the  demand,  "Why  have  you  shown  me  the  sore 
surface  of  life?  What  have  you  to  do  with  it?  And 
what  have  I?" 

His  guide  replied,  "So  you  still  long  for  the  smooth 
paths  of  prosperity?     You  would  like  to  shield  your  eyes 


102  The    Cry   for    Justice 

from  the  disagreeable  aspects  of  a  world  that  is  good  to 
you?  You  would  still  have  your  comfort  and  your  heart's 
desire?  Yoiir  ambitious  fancy  still  turns  to  the  daughter 
of  privilege,  dainty  and  lovely  and  sweet  to  the  eyes?" 

(The  yoimg  man  returns  to  the  rich  woman  whom  he 
had  meant  to  marry.) 

He  knelt  and  taking  the  hem  of  her  garment  held  it  in 
his  hands. 

"See!"  He  crushed  the  soft  fabric  in  his  hand.  "Silk 
with  thread  of  gold.  It  is  the  tears!  See!"  He  touched 
her  girdle  with  his  hands.  "Gold  and  precious  stones. 
They  are  the  groans!  See!"  He  put  his  fingers  upon 
the  golden  hair.  "A  wreath  of  pure  gold!  Tears  and 
groans  and  bloody  sweat!  You  are  a  tissue  of  the  hves 
of  others,  from  feet  to  the  crown  upon  your  hair.  .  .  . 
See!"  His  hot  hands  crushed  the  orchids  at  her  breast. 
"Even  the  flower  at  your  breast  is  stained  with  blood. 
...  I  see  the  tears  of  others  on  your  robe.  I  hear  their 
sighs  in  your  voice.  I  see  defeated  desires  in  the  light 
of  your  eyes.  You  are  the  Sacrifice  of  the  many — I 
cannot  touch!" 

30a6dla.  or  %le  pot  of  TBa0il 

By  John  Keats 

(One  of  the   loveliest  of  English  poets,    1795-1821;    a  chemist's 
assistant,  who  lived  unrecognized  and  died  despairing) 

"\^ /"ITH  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 

*  *       Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandise. 
And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 

In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories. 
And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 

In  blood  from  stinging  whip,— with  hollow  eyes 


The    Chasm  103 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark; 

For  them  his  ears  gushed  blood;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 

Lay  full  of  darts;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark; 

Half -ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel. 

That  set  sharp  wracks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 


lITfi*  &on0  of  apattfia 

By  Rudyard  Kipling 

(Under  this  title  the  English  poet  has  written  a  striking  picture 
of  the  social  chasm.  He  figures  the  world's  toilers  as  the  "Sons  of 
Martha,"  who,  because  their  mother  "was  rude  to  the  Lord,  her 
Guest,"  are  condemned  forever  to  unrequited  toil.  "It  is  their  care 
in  all  the  ages  to  take  the  buffet  and  cushion  the  shock."  The  poem 
goes  on  to  tell  of  the  ignorance  and  torment  in  which  they  live — 
while  the  Sons  of  Mary,  who  "have  inherited  that  good  part,"  live 
in  ease  upon  their  toil. 

"They  sit  at  the  Feet  and  they  hear  the  Word — they  know  how 
truly  the  Promise  runs. 

"They  have  cast  their  burden  upon  the  Lord,  and — the  Lord  he 
lays  it  on  Martha's  Sons." 

But  it  appears  that  for  a  long  period  of  years  Mr.  Kipling  has 
refused  to  permit  this  radical  poem  to  be  reprinted.  Under  the 
circumstances,  aU  that  the  editor  can  do  is  to  state  that  it  may  be 
found  in  the  files  of  the  New  York  Tribune  and  other  newspapers 
throughout  America  having  the  service  of  the  "Associated  Sunday 
Magazines,"  on  April  28,  1907.  The  editor  ventures  to  doubt  if 
there  exists  a  more  dafigefoiis  social  force  than  the  man  of  genius 
who  turns  his  divine  gift  to  the  crushing  of  the  efforts  of  his  fellow- 
men  for  justice) 


lOJi-  The    Cry   for    Justice 

E£tl«ction0  Mpon  Pobtrtp 

{From  "  The  New  Grub  Street") 
By  George  Gissing 

(Novelist  of  English  middle-class  life,  1867-1903.     Few  have  ever\ 
equalled  him  in  the  portrayal  of  the  sordid,  every-day  reahties  of 
poverty.     The  story  of  his  own  tragic  life  is  told  in  a  novel  called 
"The  Private  Life  of  Henry  Maitland,"  by  Morley  Roberts) 

AS  there  was  sunshine  Amy  accompanied  her  husband 
■  for  his  walk  in  the  afternoon;  it  was  long  since 
they  had  been  out  together.  An  open  carriage  that 
passed,  followed  by  two  young  girls  on  horseback,  gave 
a  familiar  direction  to  Reardon's  thoughts. 

"If  one  were  as  rich  as  those  people.  They  pass  so 
close  to  us;  they  see  us,  and  we  see  them;  but  the  dis- 
tance between  is  infinity.  They  don't  belong  to  the 
same  world  as  we  poor  wretches.  They  see  everything 
in  a  different  light;  they  have  powers  which  would  seem 
supernatural  if  we  were  suddenly  endowed  with  them." 

"Of  course,"  assented  his  companion  with  a  sigh. 

"Just  fancy,  if  one  got  up  in  the  morning  with  the 
thought  that  no  reasonable  desire  that  occurred  to  one 
throughout  the  day  need  remain  ungratified!  And  that 
it  would  be  the  same,  any  day  and  every  day,  to  the  end 
of  one's  life!  Look  at  those  houses;  every  detail,  within 
and  without,  luxurious.     To  have  such  a  home  as  that!" 

"And  they  are  empty  creatures  who  live  there." 

"They  do  live,  Amy,  at  all  events.  Whatever  may  be 
their  faculties,  they  all  have  free  scope.  I  have  often 
stood  staring  at  houses  like  these  until  I  couldn't  believe 
that  the  people  owning  them  were  mere  human  beings 
Hke  myself.     The  power  of  money  is  so  hard  to  realize, 


The    Chasm  105 

one  who  has  never  had  it  marvels  at  the  completeness  with 
which  it  transforms  every  detail  of  life.  Compare  what 
we  call  our  home  with  that  of  rich  people;  it  moves 
one  to  scornful  laughter.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  the 
stoical  point  of  view;  between  wealth  and  poverty  is 
just  the  difference  between  the  whole  man  and  the 
maimed.  If  my  lower  limbs  are  paralyzed  I  may  still 
be  able  to  think,  but  then  there  is  no  such  thing  in  life 
as  walking.  As  a  poor  devil  I  may  live  nobly;  but  one 
happens  to  be  made  with  faculties  of  enjoyment,  and 
those  have  to  fall  into  atrophy.  To  be  sure,  most  rich 
people  don't  imderstand  their  happiness;  if  they  did, 
they  would  move  and  talk  like  gods — which  indeed  they 
are." 

Amy's  brow  was  shadowed.  A  wise  man,  in  Reardon's 
position,  would  not  have  chosen  this  subject  to  dilate 
upon. 

"The  difference,"  he  went  on,  "between  the  man  with 
money  and  the  man  without  is  simply  this:  the  one 
thinks,  'How  shall  I  use  my  life?'  and  the  other,  'How 
shall  I  keep  myseK  alive?'  A  physiologist  ought  to  be 
able  to  discover  some  curious  distinction  between  the 
brain  of  a  person  who  has  never  given  a  thought  to  the 
means  of  subsistence,  and  that  of  one  who  has  never 
known  a  day  free  from  such  cares.  There  must  be  some 
special  cerebral  development  representing  the  mental 
anguish  kept  up  by  poverty." 

"I  should  say,"  put  in  Amy,  "that  it  affects  every 
fimction  of  the  brain.  It  isn't  a  special  point  of  suf- 
fering, but  a  misery  that  colors  every  thought." 

"True.  Can  I  think  of  a  single  object  in  all  the  sphere 
of  my  experience  without  the  consciousness  that  I  see 
it  through  the  medium  of  poverty?    I  have  no  enjoyment 


106  The    Cry   for    Justice 

which  isn't  tainted  by  that  thought,  and  I  can  suffer 
no  pain  which  it  doesn't  increase.  The  curse  of  poverty- 
is  to  the  modern  world  just  what  that  of  slavery  was  to 
the  ancient.  Rich  and  destitute  stand  to  each  other  as 
free  man  and  bond.  You  remember  the  line  of  Homer 
I  have  often  quoted  about  the  demoralizing  effect  of 
enslavement;  poverty  degrades  in  the  same  way." 

"It  has  had  its  effect  upon  me — I  know  that  too  well," 
said  Amy,  with  bitter  frankness. 

Reardon  glanced  at  her,  and  wished  to  make  some 
reply,  but  he  could  not  say  what  was  in  his  thoughts. 


By  John  Ruskin 

(English  art  critic  and  university  professor,  1819-1900;    author  of 

many  works  upon  social  questions,  and  master  of  perhaps 

the  greatest  EngHsh  prose  style) 

TDRIMARILY,  which  is  very  notable  and  cm-ious, 
■'-  I  observe  that  men  of  business  rarely  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word  "rich."  At  least  if  they  know, 
they  do  not  in  their  reasonings  allow  for  the  fact,  that 
it  is  a  relative  word,  implying  its  opposite  "poor"  as 
positively  as  the  word  "north"  implies  its  opposite 
"south."  Men  nearly  always  speak  and  write  as  if  riches 
were  absolute,  and  it  were  possible,  by  following  certain 
scientific  precepts,  for  everybody  to  be  rich.  Whereas 
riches  are  a  power  like  that  of  electricity,  acting  only 
through  inequalities  or  negations  of  itself.  The  force 
of  the  guinea  you  have  in  your  pocket  depends  wholly 
on  the  default  of  a  guinea  in  your  neighbor's  pocket. 


The    Chasm  107 

If  he  did  not  want  it,  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  you;  the 
degree  of  power  it  possesses  depends  accurately  upon  the 
need  or  desire  he  has  for  it,— and  the  art  of  making  your- 
self rich,  in  the  ordinary  mercantile  economist's  sense,  is 
therefore  equally  and  necessarily  the  art  of  keeping  your 
neighbor  poor. 


E^nffffaam  &  Co. 

By  Hjalmar  Bergstrom 

(Contemporary  Danish  dramatist,  born  1868.  The  present  play 
deals  with  the  modern  industrial  struggle.  The  wife  of  a  great 
manufacturer  has  become  the  victim  of  melanchoUa  after  a  strike) 

\  /fRS.  LYNGGAARD  (absorbed  in  her  memories) : — 
■'•*■'■  I  shall  never  forget  the  day  when  the  people  went 
back  to  work.  I  was  watching  them  from  my  bedroom 
window.  For  four  months  they  had  been  starving — 
starving,  do  you  understand? — they  and  theirs.  Then 
they  turned  up  again  one  winter  morning  before  daylight, 
and  there  they  stood  and  shivered  in  the  yards.  They 
had  no  over-clothes,  of  course,  and  they  were  shaking 
both  from  cold  and  from  weakness.  And  then  their 
faces  were  all  covered  with  beards,  so  that  one  couldn't 
recognize  them.  There  they  stood  and  waited  a  long 
time,  a  very  long  time.  ...  At  last  Heymarm  [the 
manager]  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  read  something 
from  a  paper.  It  was  the  conditions  of  surrender,  I  sup- 
pose. None  of  them  looked  up.  Then,  as  they  were 
about  to  walk  in  and  begin  working,  Hejnnann  stopped 
them  by  holding  up  his  hand,  and  he  said  something 
I  couldn't  hear.  But  after  a  little  while  I  saw  Olsen 
[the  strike-leader]  standing  all  by  himself  in  a  cleared 


108  The    Cry   for    Justice 

place.  {A  shiver  runs  through  her  at  the  recollection.) 
Once  I  saw  a  picture  of  an  execution  in  a  prison  yard. 
...  It  lasted  only  a  few  seconds.  Then  Olsen  said  a 
few  words  to  his  comrades  and  walked  away,  looking 
white  as  a  ghost.  The  crowd  opened  up  to  let  him 
pass  through.  Then  the  rest  stood  there  for  a  while 
looking  so  strangely  depressed  and  not  knowing  what 
to  do.  And  at  last  they  went  in,  one  by  one,  bent  and 
broken. 

Mikkelsen: — Olsen  wasn't  allowed  to  go  back  to  work? 

Mrs.  Lynggaaed  :— It  was  he  who  had  been  their 
leader,  and  it  was  his  fault  that  they  had  held  out  as 
long  as  they  did.  And  then  Olsen  began  to  look  for 
work  elsewhere,  but  none  of  the  other  companies  would 
have  anything  to  do  with  him. 

Mikkelsen  {shrugging  his  shoulders): — ^War  is  war. 

Mrs.  Lynggaard  : — ^A  few  months  later,  as  I  was  taking 
a  walk,  I  was  stopped  on  the  street  by  Olsen's  wife.  I 
tell  you,  the  way  she  looked  made  my  heart  shrink  within 
me.  Her  husband  was  completely  broken  down,  she 
told  me.  And  on  top  of  it  all  he  had  taken  to  drink. 
Everything  she  and  the  children  could  scrape  together, 
he  spent  on  whiskey.  She  herself  was  so  far  gone  with 
her  eighth  child  that  she  would  soon  have  to  quit  work. 
.  .  .  Then  I  went  home  to  my  husband  and  begged  and 
prayed  him  to  take  Olsen  back  and  make  a  man  of  him 
again.  It  was  the  first  time  during  our  marriage  that 
I  saw  him  beside  himself  with  rage.  There  came  into  his 
eyes  such  an  evil  expression  that  I  wish  I  had  never 
seen  it,  for  I  have  never  since  been  able  to  forget  it 
entirely.  But,  of  course,  I  guessed  who  was  back  of  it. 
(With  emphasis.)  Then  I  did  the  most  humiliating  thing 
I  have  ever  done:  I  went  in  secret  to  Heymann  and 
pleaded  for  that  discharged  workman. 


The    Chasm  109 

Mikkelsen: — Well,  and  Hejnmann? 

Mrs.  Lynggaard: — Since  that  moment  I  hate  Hey- 
mann.  There  I  was,  himibling  myself  before  him.  And 
he  measured  me  with  cold  eyes  and  said:  "If  I  am  to 
be  in  charge  of  this  plant,  madam,  I  must  ask  once  for 
all  and  absolutely,  that  no  outsiders  interfere  with  the 
running  of  it." 

Mikkelsen: — I  don't  see  that  he  could  have  done 
anything  else. 

Mrs.  Lynggaard: — What  I  cannot  forgive  myself  is 
that  I  let  myself  be  imposed  upon  by  that  man.  I 
behaved  like  a  coward.  At  that  moment  I  should  have- 
gone  to  my  husband  and  said:  "This  is  what  has  hap- 
pened— now  you  must  choose  between  Heymann  and 
me!"  But  I  was  so  cowardly,  that  I  didn't  even  tell 
my  husband  what  I  had  done. 

Mikkelsen: — Nor  was  it  proper  for  you  to  go  behind 
your  husband's  back  like  that. 

Mrs.  Lynggaard  {with  an  expression  of  abject  horror 
in  her  fixed  gaze): — A  little  afterwards  this  thing  hap- 
pened. It  was  one  of  the  first  warm  smnmer  days,  and 
I  was  walking  in  the  garden  with  Jacob.  At  that  time 
a  splendid  old  chestnut  tree  was  growing  in  one  corner. 
And  there,  in  the  midst  of  green  leaves,  and  singing 
birds,  Olsen  was  hanging,  cold  and  dead.  And  the  flies 
were  cradling  in  and  out  of  his  face.  .  .  .  (She  trembles 
visibly.) 

Mikkelsen: — Yes,  life  is  cruel. 

Mrs.  Lynggaard: — And  there  I  perceived  for  the  first 
time  how  utterly  poor  a  human  being  may  become. 
Anjrthing  so  pitiful  and  miserable  I  had  never  seen  before. 
There  was  no  sign  of  underclothing  between  his  trousers 
and  the  vest.     And  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  seemed 


110  The    Cry   Jor    Justice 

almost  as  if  this  was  what  hurt  me  most — much  more 
than  that  he  had  hanged  himself.  .  .  .  And  since  that 
day  I  haven't  known  a  single  hour  of  happiness. 


By  Leo  Tolstoy  \ 

(From  an  essay  in  which  the  Russian  novelist  and  reipm>er,      ,■■ 
1828-1910,  has  set  forth  the  creed  by  which  he  live'<|) 

^A  y'HAT  is  the  law  of  nature?  Is  it  to  know  that  my 
'  '  security  and  that  of  my  family,  all  my  amusements 
and  pleasures,  are  purchased  at  the  expense  of  misery, 
deprivation,  and  suffering  to  thousands  of  human  beings 
—by  the  terror  of  the  gallows;  by  the  misfortune  of 
thousands  stifling  •  within  prison  walls;  by  the  fears 
inspired  by  millions  of  soldiers  and  guardians  of  civiliza- 
tion, torn  from  their  homes  and  besotted  by  discipline, 
to  protect  our  pleasures  with  loaded  revolvers  against 
the  possible  interference  of  the  famishing!  Is  it  to  pur- 
chase every  fragment  of  bread  that  I  put  in  my  mouth 
and  the  mouths  of  my  children  by  the  numberless  priva- 
tions that  are  necessary  to  procure  my  abundance?  Or 
is  it  to  be  certain  that  my  piece  of  bread  only  belongs 
to  me  when  I  know  that  everyone  else  has  a  share,  and 
that  no  one  starves  while  I  eat? 


The    Chasm  111 

•Efit  iaDctopu0  * 

By  Frank  Norris 

(The  young  American  novelist,  1870-1902,  planned  this  as  the 
first  of  a  trilogy  of  novels,  the  "Epic  of  the  Wheat."  The  second 
volume,  "The  Pit,"  was  written,  but  his  death  interrupted  the 
third.  The  present  story  narrates  the  long  struggle  between  the 
farmers  of  the  San  Joaquin  valley  and  the  railroad  "octopus." 
The  farmers  have  been  beaten,  and  several  of  them  killed  while 
resisting  eviction  from  their  homes.  The  hero  is  at  a  dumer  party 
in  San  Francisco,  at  the  same  time  that  the  widow  and  child  of  one 
of  the  victims  are  wandering  the  streets  outside) 

A  LL  around  the  table  conversations  were  going  forward 
-^*-  gayly.  The  good  wines  had  broken  up  the  slight 
restraint  of  the  early  part  of  the  evening  and  a  spirit  of 
good  humor  and  good  fellowship  prevailed.  Young 
Lambery  and  Mr.  Gerard  were  deep  in  reminiscences  of 
certain  mutual  duck-shooting  expeditions.  Mrs.  Gerard 
and  Mrs;  Cedarquist  discussed  a  novel — a  strange  min- 
gling of  psychology,  degeneracy,  and  analysis  of  erotic 
conditions — which  had  just  been  translated  from  the 
Italian.  Stephen  Lambert  and  Beatrice  disputed  over 
the  merits  of  a  Scotch  collie  just  given  to  the  young  lady. 
The  scene  was  gay,  the  electric  bulbs  sparkled,  the  wine 
flashing  back  the  Ught.  The  entire  table  was  a  vague 
glow  of  white  napery,  delicate  china,  and  glass  as  bril- 
liant as  crystal.  Behind  the  guests  the  serving-men 
came  and  went,  filling  the  glasses  continually,  changing 
the  covers,  serving  the  entries,  managing  the  dinner 
without  interruption,  confusion,  or  the  slightest  unneces- 
sary noise. 
But  Presley  could  find  no  enjoyment  in  the  occasion. 


*  By  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


tl2  The    Cry   for    Justice 

From  that  picture  of  feasting,  that  scene  of  luxury,  that 
atmosphere  of  decorous,  well-bred  refinement,  his  thoughts 
went  back  to  Los  Muertos  and  Quien  Sabe  and  the  irri- 
gating ditch  at  Hooven's.  He  saw  them  fall,  one  by  one, 
Harran,  Annixter,  Osterman,  Broderson,  Hooven.  The 
clink  of  the  wine  glasses  was  drowned  in  the  explosion  of 
revolvers.  The  Railroad  might  indeed  be  a  force  only, 
which  no  man  could  control  and  for  which  no  man  was 
responsible,  but  his  friends  had  been  killed,  but  years  of 
extortion  and  oppression  had  wrung  money  from  all  the 
San  Joaquin,  money  that  had  made  possible  this  very 
scene  in  which  he  found  himself.  Because  Magnus  had 
been  beggared,  Gerard  had  become  Railroad  King; 
because  the  farmers  of  the  valley  were  poor,  these  men 
were  rich. 

The  fancy  grew  big  in  his  mind,  distorted,  caricatured, 
terrible.  Because  the  farmers  had  been  killed  at  the 
irrigating  ditch,  these  others,  Gerard  and  his  family,  fed 
full.  They  fattened  on  the  blood  of  the  People,  on  the 
blood  of  the  men  who  had  been  killed  at  the  ditch.  It 
was  a  half -ludicrous,  half-horrible  "dog  eat  dog,"  an 
unspeakable  cannibahsm.  Harran,  Annixter,  and  Hooven 
were  being  devoured  there  under  his  eyes.  These  dainty 
women,  his  cousin  Beatrice  and  little  Miss  Gerard,  frail, 
delicate;  all  these  fine  ladies  with  their  small  fingers  and 
slender  necks,  suddenly  were  transfigured  in  his  tortured 
mind  into  harpies  tearing  hiunan  flesh.  His  head  swam 
with  the  horror  of  it,  the  terror  of  it.  Yes,  the  People 
would  turn  some  day,  and,  turning,  rend  those  who  now 
preyed  upon  them.  It  would  be  "dog  eat  dog"  again, 
with  positions  reversed,  and  he  saw  for  an  instant  of  time 
that  splendid  house  sacked  to  its  foundations,  the  tables 
overturned,  the  pictures  torn,  the  hangings  blazing,  and 


The    Chasm  US 

Liberty,  the  red-handed  Man  in  the  Street,  grimed  with 
powder  smoke,  foul  with  the  gutter,  rush  yelling,  torch 
in  hand,  through  every  door. 

At  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Hooven  fell. 

Luckily  she  was  leading  Hilda  by  the  hand  at  the 
time  and  the  httle  girl  was  not  hurt.  In  vain  had  Mrs. 
Hooven,  hour  after  hour,  walked  the  streets.  After  a 
while  she  no  longer  made  any  attempt  to  beg;  nobody 
was  stirring,  nor  did  she  even  try  to  hunt  for  food  with 
the  stray  dogs  and  cats.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
return  to  the  park  in  order  to  sit  upon  the  benches  there, 
but  she  had  mistaken  the  direction,  and,  following  up 
Sacramento  Street,  had  come  out  at  length,  not  upon 
the  park,  but  upon  a  great  vacant  lot  at  the  very  top  of 
the  Clay  Street  hill.  The  ground  was  unfenced  and  rose 
above  her  to  form  the  cap  of  the  hill,  all  overgrown  with 
bushes  and  a  few  stunted  live-oaks.  It  was  in  trying  to 
cross  this  piece  of  groimd  that  she  fell.  .  .  . 

"You  going  to  sleep,  mammy?"  inquired  Hilda,  touch- 
ing her  face. 

Mrs.  Hooven  roused  herself  a  little. 

"Hey?  Vat  you  say?  Asleep?  Yais,  I  guess  I  wass 
asleep." 

Her  voice  trailed  unintelligibly  to  silence  again.  She 
was  not,  however,  asleep.  Her  eyes  were  open.  A  grate- 
ful numbness  had  begun  to  creep  over  her,  a  pleasing 
semi-insensibilty.  She  no  longer  felt  the  pain  and 
cramps  of  her  stomach,  even  the  hunger  was  ceasing 
to  bite. 

"These  stuffed  artichokes  are  delicious,  Mrs.  Gerard, 
murmured  young  Lambert,  wiping  his  lips  with  a  comer 


114  The    Cry   for    Justice 

of  his  napkin.  "Pardon  me  for  mentioning  it,  but  your 
dinner  must  be  my  excuse." 

"And  this  asparagus — since  Mr.  Lambert  has  set  the 
bad  example,"  observed  Mrs.  Cedarquist,  "so  deUcate, 
such  an  exquisite  flavor.     How  do  you  manage?" 

"We  get  all  our  asparagus  from  the  southern  part  of 
the  State,  from  one  particular  ranch,"  explained  Mrs. 
Gerard.  "We  order  it  by  wire  and  get  it  only  twenty 
hours  after  cutting.  My  husband  sees  to  it  that  it  is 
put  on  a  special  train.  It  stops  at  this  ranch  just  to  take 
on  our  asparagus.  Extravagant,  isn't  it,  but  I  simply 
can  not  eat  asparagus  that  has  been  cut  more  than  a 
day." 

"Nor  I,"  exclaimed  Julian  Lambert,  who  posed  as  an 
epicure.  "I  can  tell  to  an  hour  just  how  long  asparagus 
has  been  picked." 

"Fancy  eating  ordinary  market  asparagus,"  said  Mrs. 
Gerard,  "that  has  been  fingered  by  Heaven  knows  how 
many  hands." 

"Mammy,  mammy,  wake  up,"  cried  Hilda,  trying  to 
push  open  Mrs.  Hooven's  eyelids,  at  last  closed. 
"Mammy,  don't.     You're  just  trying  to  frighten  me." 

Feebly  Hilda  shook  her  by  the  shoulder.  At  last  Mrs. 
Hooven's  lips  stirred.  Putting  her  head  down,  Hilda 
distinguished  the  whispered  words: 

"I'm  sick.  Go  to  schleep.  .  .  .  Sick.  .  .  .  Noddings 
to  eat." 

The  dessert  was  a  wonderful  preparation  of  alternate 

layers  of  biscuit,  glaces,  ice  cream,  and  candied  chestnuts. 

'Delicious,  is  it  not?"  observed  Julian  Lambert,  partly 

to  himself,  partly  to  Miss  Cedarquist.     "This  Moscovite 

foueM — upon  my  word,  I  have  never  tasted  its  equal." 


The    Chasm  116 

"And  you  should  know,  shouldn't  you?"  returned  the 
young  lady. 

"Mammy,  mammy,  wake  up,"  cried  Hilda.  "Don't 
sleep  so.     I'm  frightened." 

Repeatedly  she  shook  her;  repeatedly  she  tried  to 
raise  the  inert  eyelids  with  the  point  of  her  finger.  But 
her  mother  no  longer  stirred.  The  gaunt,  lean  body, 
with  its  bony  face  and  sunken  eye-sockets,  lay  back,  prone 
upon  the  groimd,  the  feet  upturned  and  showing  the 
ragged,  worn  soles  of  the  shoes,  the  forehead  and  gray 
hair  beaded  with  fog,  the  poor,  faded  bonnet  awry,  the 
poor,  faded  dress  soiled  and  torn. 

Hilda  drew  close  to  her  mother,  kissing  her  face,  twin- 
ing her  arms  around  her  neck.  For  a  long  time  she  lay 
that  way,  alternately  sobbing  and  sleeping.  Then,  after 
a  long  time,  there  was  a  stir.  She  woke  from  a  doze 
to  find  a  police  ofl&cer  and  two  or  three  other  men  bending 
over  her.  Some  one  carried  a  lantern.  Terrified,  smitten 
dimib,  *  she  was  imable  to  answer  the  questions  put  to 
her.  Then  a  woman,  evidently  the  mistress  of  the  house 
on  the  top  of  the  hill,  arrived  and  took  Hilda  in  her  arms 
and  cried  over  her. 

"I'll  take  the  little  girl,"  she  said  to  the  police  officer. 
"But  the  mother,  can  you  save  her?  Is  shetoo  far 
gone?" 

"I've  sent  for  a  doctor,"  replied  the  other. 

Just  before  the  ladies  left  the  table,  young  Lambert 
raised  his  glass  of  Madeira.  Turning  towards  the  wife 
of  the  Railroad  King,  he  said: 

"My  best  compliments  for  a  dehghtful  dinner." 


116  The    Cry   for    Justice 


The  doctor,  who  had  been  bending  over  Mrs.  Hooven, 
rose. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said;  "she  has  been  dead  some  time 
— exhaustion  from  starvation." 


By  Anatole  France 

THE  law  in  its  majestic  equality  forbids  the  rich  as 
well  as  the  poor  to  sleep  under  bridges,  to  beg  in  the 
streets  and  to  steal  bread. 


PrDBtf00  anb  Pobfttp 

By  Henry  George 

(One  of  the  most  widely-read  treatises  upon  economics  ever 
published,  this  book  was  the  fountain  head  of  the  single-tax  move- 
ment. The  writer  was  a  California  journaUst,  1839-1897,  who 
devoted  all  his  life  to  the  propaganda  of  economic  justice) 

UNPLEASANT  as  it  may  be  to  admit  it,  it  is  at  last 
becoming  evident  that  the  enormous  increase  in 
productive  power  which  has  marked  the  present  century 
and  is  still  going  on  with  accelerating  ratio,  has  no  tend- 
ency to  extirpate  poverty  or  to  lighten  the  burdens  of 
those  compelled  to  toil.  It  simply  widens  the  gulf 
between  Dives  and  Lazarus,  and  makes  the  struggle  for 
existence  more  intense.  The  march  of  invention  has 
clothed  mankind  with  powers  of  which  a  century  ago 
the  boldest  imagination  could  not  have  dreamed.  But 
in  factories  where  labor-saving  machinery  has  reached 
its  most  wonderful  development,  httle  children  are  at 
work;    wherever  the  new  forces  are  anything  like  fully 


THE   HAND   OF   FATE 

WILLIAM    BALFOUR   KKU 

(Conlemporary  American  ilbislniior) 

Copyright  by  J .  A  Mitchell. 


The    Chasm  117 

utilized,  large  classes  are  maintained  by  charity  or  live 
on  the  verge  of  recourse  to  it;  amid  the  greatest  accumu- 
lations of  wealth,  men  die  of  starvation,  and  puny  infants 
suckle  dry  breasts;  while  everywhere  the  greed  of  gain, 
the  worship  of  wealth,  shows  the  force  of  the  fear  of 
want.  The  promised  land  flies  before  us  like  the  mirage. 
The  fruits  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  turn,  as  we  grasp 
them,  to  apples  of  Sodom  that  crxunble  at  the  touch.  .  .  . 
This  association  of  poverty  with  progress  is  the  great 
enigma  of  our  times.  It  is  the  central  fact  from  which 
spring  industrial,  social,  and  political  difficulties  that  per- 
plex the  world,  and  with  which  statesmanship  and  phil- 
anthropy and  education  grapple  in  vain.  From  it  come 
the  clouds  that  overhang  the  future  of  the  most  progres- 
sive and  self-reliant  nations.  It  is  the  riddle  which  the 
Sphinx  of  Fate  puts  to  om*  civilization,  and  which  not  to 
answer  is  to  be  destroyed.  So  long  as  all  the  increased 
wealth  which  modem  progress  brings  goes  but  to  build 
up  great  fortimes,  to  increase  luxury  and  make  sharper 
the  contrast  between  the  House  of  Have  and  the  House 
of  Want,  progress  is  not  real  and  cannot  be  permanent. 
The  reaction  must  come.  The  tower  leans  from  its  founda- 
tions, and  every  new  story  but  hastens  the  final  catas- 
trophe. To  educate  men  who  must  be  condemned  to 
poverty,  is  but  to  make  them  restive;  to  base  on  a  state 
of  most  glaring  social  inequality  poHtical  institutions 
under  which  men  are  theoretically  equal,  is  to  stand  a 
pyramid  on  its  apex. 


BOOK  III 

The  Outcast 


The  life  of  the  underworld,  of  those  thrown  upon  the  scrap- 
heap  of  the  modem  industrial  machine;  vivid  and  powerful 
passages  portraying  the  lives  of  tramps,  criminals  and  prostitutes. 


By  Robert  Blatchford 

(See  page  66) 

T  N  defending  the  Bottom  Dog  I  do  not  deal  with  hard 
■'■  science  only;  but  with  the  dearest  faiths,  the  oldest 
wrongs  and  the  most  awful  relationships  of  the  great 
human  family,  for  whose  good  I  strive  and  to  whose 
judgment  I  appeal.  Knowing,  as  I  do,  how  the  hard- 
working and  hard-plajdng  public  shun  laborious  thinking 
and  serious  writing,  and  how  they  hate  to  have  their 
ease  disturbed  or  their  prejudices  handled  rudely,  I  still 
make  bold  to  imdertake  this  task,  because  of  the  vital 
nature  of  the  problems  I  shall  probe. 

The  case  for  the  Bottom  Dog  should  touch  the  public 
heart  to  the  quick,  for  it  affects  the  truth  of  our  religions, 
the  justice  of  our  laws  and  the  destinies  of  our  children 
and  our  children's  children.  Much  golden  eloquence  has 
been  squandered  in  praise  of  the  successful  and  the  good; 
much  stern  condemnation  has  been  vented  upon  the 
wicked.  I  venture  now  to  plead  for  those  of  our  poor 
brothers  and  sisters  who  are  accursed  of  Christ  and 
rejected  of  men. 

Hitherto  all  the  love,  all  the  honors,  all  the  applause 
of  this  world,  and  all  the  rewards  of  heaven,  have  been 
lavished  on  the  fortunate  and  the  strong;  and  the  por- 
tion of  the  unfriended  Bottom  Dog,  in  his  adversity  and 
weakness,  has  been  curses,  blows,  chains,  the  gallows  and 
everlasting  damnation.  I  shall  plead,  then,  for  thos3 
who  are  loathed  and  tortured  and  branded  as  the  sinful 
and  unclean;   for  those  who  have  hated  us  and  wronged 

(121) 


122  The    Cry   for    Justice 

us,  and  have  been  wronged  and  hated  by  us.  I  shall 
defend  them  for  right's  sake,  for  pity's  sake  ana  for  the 
benefit  of  society  and  the  race.  For  these  also  are  of 
our  flesh,  these  also  have  erred  and  gone  astray,  these 
also  are  victims  of  an  inscrutable  and  relentless  Fate. 

If  it  concerns  us  that  the  religions  of  the  world  are 
childish  dreams  or  nightmares;  if  it  concerns  us  that  our 
penal  laws  and  moral  codes  are  survivals  of  barbarism 
and  fear;  if  it  concerns  us  that  our  most  cherished  and 
venerable  ideas  of  our  relations  to  God  and  to  each  other 
are  illogical  and  savage,  then  the  case  for  the  Bottom 
Dog  concerns  us  nearly. 

If  it  moves  us  to  learn  that  disease  may  be  prevented, 
that  ruin  may  be  averted,  that  broken  hearts  and  broken 
lives  may  be  made  whole;  if  it  inspires  us  to  hear  how 
beauty  may  be  conjured  out  of  loathsomeness  and  glory 
out  of  shame;  how  waste  may  be  turned  to  wealth  and 
death  to  life,  and  despair  to  happiness,  then  the  case 
for  the  Bottom  Dog  is  a  case  to  be  well  and  truly  tried. 


{From  "Children  of  the  Dead  End") 

By  Patrick  MacGill 

(See  pages  32,  47) 

'  T^WAS  towards  the  close  of  a  fine  day  on  the  f ollow- 
■L  ing  summer  that  we  were  at  work  in  the  dead  end 
of  a  cutting.  Moleskin  and  I,  when  I,  who  had  been 
musing  on  the  quickly  passing  years,  tmrned  to  Mole- 
skin and  quoted  a  line  from  the  Bible. 

*  By  permission  of  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 


The    Outcast  123 

"Our  years  pass  like  a  tale  that  is  told,"  I  said. 

"Like  a  tale  that  is  told  damned  bad,"  answered  my 
mate,  picking  stray  crumbs  of  tobacco  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket  and  stuffing  them  into  the  heel  of  his  pipe. 
"  It's  a  strange  world,  Flynn.  Here  today,  gone  tomorrow; 
always  waiting  for  a  good  time  comin'  and  knowiu'  that 
it  will  never  come.  We  work  with  one  mate  this  evenin', 
we  beg  for  crumbs  with  another  on  the  mornia'  after. 
It's  a  bad  life,  ours,  and  a  poor  one,  when  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  Flynn." 

"It  is  all  that,"  I  assented  heartily. 

"Look  at  me!"  said  Joe,  clenching  his  fists  and  squaring 
his  shoulders.  "I  must  be  close  on  forty  years,  maybe 
on  the  graveyard  side  of  it,  for  all  I  know.  I've  horsed 
it  ever  since  I  can  mind;  I've  worked  like  a  mule  for 
years,  and  what  have  I  to  show  for  it  all  today,  matey? 
Not  the  price  of  an  ounce  of  tobacco!  A  midsummer 
scarecrow  wouldn't  wear  the  duds  that  I've  to  wrap 
around  my  hide!  A  cockle-picker  that  has  no  property 
only  when  the  tide  is  out  is  as  rich  as  I  am.  Not  the 
price  of  an  oimce  of  tobacco!  There  is  something  wrong 
with  men  like  us,  surely,  when  we're  treated  like  swine 
iu  a  sty  for  all  the  years  of  our  life.  It's  not  so  bad  here, 
but  it's  in  the  big  towns  that  a  man  can  feel  it  most. 
No  person  cares  for  the  like  of  us,  Flynn.  I've  worked 
nearly  ev'rywhere;  I've  helped  to  build  bridges,  dams, 
houses,  ay,  and  towns!  When  they  were  finished,  what 
happened?  Was  it  for  us — the  men  who  did  the  buildin' 
— ^to  live  in  the  homes  that  we  built,  or  walk  through 
the  streets  that  we  laid  down?  No  earthly  chance  of 
that!  It  was  always,  'Slide!  we  don't  need  you  any 
more,'  and  then  a  man  like  me,  as  helped  to  build  a 
thousand  houses  big  as  castles,  was  hellish  glad  to  get 


124  The    Cry   for    Justice 

the  shelter  of  a  ten-acre  field  and  a  shut-gate  between 
me  and  the  winds  of  night.  I've  spent  all  my  money, 
have  I?  It's  bloomin'  easy  to  spend  all  that  fellows  like 
us  can  earn.  When  I  was  in  London  I  saw  a  lady  spend 
as  much  on  fm-  to  decorate  her  carcase  with  as  would 
keep  me  in  beer  and  tobacco  for  all  the  rest  of  my  life. 
And  that  same  lady  would  decorate  a  dog  in  ribbons  and 
fol-the-dols,  and  she  wouldn't  give  me  the  smell  of  a  crust 
when  I  asked  her  for  a  mouthful  of  bread.  What  could 
you  expect  from  a  woman  who  wears  the  .furry  hide  of 
some  animal  roimd  her  neck,  anyhow?  We  are  not 
thought  as  much  of  as  dogs,  Flynn.  By  God!  them  rich 
buckos  do  eat  an  awful  lot.  Many  a  time  I  crept  up  to 
a  window  just  to  see  them  gorgin'  themselves." 

"I  have  looked  in  at  windows  too,"  I  said. 

"Most  men  do,"  answered  Joe.  "You've  heard  of 
old  Moses  goin'  up  the  hill  to  have  a  bit  peep  at  the 
Promist  Land.  He  was  just  like  me  and  you,  Flynn, 
wantin'  to  have  a  peep  at  the  things  which  he'd  never 
I  lay  his  claws  on." 

"Those  women  who  sit  half -naked  at  the  table  have 
big  appetites,"  I  said. 

"They're  all  gab  and  guts,  like  young  crows,"  said 
Moleskin.  "And  they  think  more  of  their  dogs  than 
they  do  of  men  like  me  and  you.     I'm  an  Antichrist!" 

"A  what?" 

"One  of  them  sort  of  fellows  as  throws  bombs  at  kings." 

"You  mean  an  Anarchist." 

"Well,  whatever  they  are,  I'm  one.  What  is  the  good 
of  kings,  of  fine-feathered  ladies,  of  churches,  of  anything 
in  the  country,  to  men  like  me  and  you?" 


The    Outcast  126 

W^t  Carter  and  t^z  Carpenter* 

{From  "  The  People  of  the  Abyss") 

By  Jack  London 

(See  page  62) 

I  ^HE  Carter,  with  his  clean-cut  face,  chin  beard,  and 

■•■  shaved  upper  lip,  I  should  have  taken  in  the  United 
States  for  anything  from  a  master  workman  to  a  well- 
to-do  farmer.  The  Carpenter — well,  I  should  have  taken 
him  for  a  carpenter.  He  looked  it,  lean  and  wiry,  with 
shrewd,  observant  eyes,  and  hands  that  had  grown  twisted 
to  the  handles  of  tools  through  forty-seven  years'  work  at 
the  trade.  The  chief  difficulty  with  these  men  was  that 
they  were  old,  and  that  their  children,  iastead  of  growing 
up  to  take  care  of  them,  had  died.  Their  years  had  told 
on  them,  and  they  had  been  forced  out  of  the  whirl  of 
industry  by  the  younger  and  stronger  competitors  who 
had  taken  their  places. 

These  two  men,  turned  away  from  the  casual  ward  of 
Whitechapel  Workhouse,  were  boimd  with  me  for  Poplar 
Workhouse.  Not  much  of  a  show,  they  thought,  but  to 
chance  it  was  all  that  remained  to  us.  It  was  Poplar, 
or  the  streets  and  night.  Both  men  were  anxious  for  a 
bed,  for  they  were  "about  gone,"  as  they  phrased  it. 
The  Carter,  fifty-eight  years  of  age,  had  spent  the  last 
three  nights  without  shelter  or  sleep,  while  the  Carpenter, 
sixty-five  years  of  age,  had  been  out  five  nights. 

But,  0  dear,  soft  people,  full  of  meat  and  blood,  with 
white  beds  and  airy  rooms  waiting  you  each  night,  how 
can  I  make  you  know  what  it  is  to  suffer  as  you  would 
suffer  if  you  spent  a  weary  night  on  London's  streets? 

*  By  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Co. 


ISe  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Believe  me,  you  wovild  think  a  thousand  centuries  had 
come  and  gone  before  the  east  paled  into  dawn;  you  would 
shiver  till  you  were  ready  to  cry  aloud  with  the  pain 
of  each  aching  muscle;  and  you  would  marvel  that  you 
could  endure  so  much  and  live.  Should  you  rest  upon 
a  bench,  and  your  tired  eyes  close,  depend  upon  it  the 
policeman  would  rouse  you  and  gruffly  order  you  to 
"move  on."  You  may  rest  upon  the  bench,  and  benches 
are  few  and  far  between;  but  if  rest  means  sleep,  on  you 
must  go,  dragging  your  tired  body  through  the  endless 
streets.  Should  you,  ia  desperate  slyness,  seek  some 
forlorn  alley,  or  dark  passage-way,  and  lie  down,  the 
onmipresent  policeman  will  rout  you  out  just  the  same. 
It  is  his  busLaess  to  rout  you  out.  It  is  a  law  of  the 
powers  that  be  that  you  shall  be  routed  out. 

But  when  the  dawn  came,  the  nightmare  over,  you 
would  hale  you  home  to  refresh  yourself,  and  imtil  you 
died  you  would  tell  the  story  of  your  adventure  to  groups 
of  admiring  friends.  It  would  grow  into  a  mighty  story. 
Your  little  eight-hoiu"  night  would  become  an  Odyssey 
and  you  a  Homer. 

Not  so  with  these  homeless  ones  who  walked  to  Poplar 
Workhouse  with  me.  And  there  are  thirty-five  thousand 
of  them,  men  and  women,  in  London  Town  this  night. 
Please  don't  remember  it  as  you  go  to  bed;  if  you  are 
as  soft  as  you  ought  to  be  you  may  not  rest  so  well  as 
usual.  But  for  old  men  of  sixty,  seventy,  and  eighty, 
ill-fed,  with  neither  meat  nor  blood,  to  greet  the  dawn 
unrefreshed,  and  to  stagger  through  the  day  in  mad 
search  for  crusts,  with  relentless  night  rushing  down 
upon  them  agaiu,  and  to  do  this  five  nights  and  days — 
0  dear,  soft  people,  full  of  meat  and  blood,  how  can  you 
ever  \mderstand? 


The    Outcast  127 

I  walked  up  Mile  End  Road  between  the  Carter  and 
the  Carpenter.  Mile  End  Road  is  a  wide  thoroughfare, 
cutting  the  heart  of  East  London,  and  there  are  tens  of 
thousands  of  people  abroad  on  it.  I  tell  you  this  so 
that  you  may  fully  appreciate  what  I  shall  describe  in 
the  next  paragraph.  As  I  say,  we  walked  along,  and 
when  they  grew  bitter  and  cursed  the  land,  I  cursed 
with  them,  cursed  as  an  American  waif  would  curse, 
stranded  in  a  strange  and  terrible  land.  And,  as  I  tried 
to  lead  them  to  believe,  and  succeeded  in  making  them 
believe,  they  took  me  for  a  "seafaring  man,"  who  had 
spent  his  money  in  riotous  living,  lost  his  clothes  (no 
unusual  occurrence  with  seafaring  men  ashore),  and  was 
temporarily  broke  while  looking  for  a  ship.  This  ac- 
counted for  my  ignorance  of  English  ways  in  general 
and  casual  wards  in  particular,  and  my  curiosity  con- 
cerning the  same. 

The  Carter  was  hard  put  to  keep  the  pace  at  which 
we  walked  (he  told  me  that  he  had  eaten  nothing  that 
day),  but  the  Carpenter,  lean  and  hungry,  his  grey  and 
ragged  overcoat  flapping  mournfully  in  the  breeze,  swung 
on  in  a  lone  and  tireless  stride  which  reminded  me  strongly 
of  the  plains  wolf  or  coyote.  Both  kept  their  eyes  upon 
the  pavement  as  they  walked  and  talked,  and  every  now 
and  then  one  or  the  other  would  stoop  and  pick  some- 
thing up,  never  missing  his  stride  the  while.  I  thought 
it  was  cigar  and  cigarette  stumps  they  were  collecting, 
and  for  some  time  took  no  notice.     Then  I  did  notice. 

From  the  slimy,  spittle-drenched  sidewalk,  they  were 
picking  up  bits  of  orange  peel,  apple  skin,  and  grape  stems, 
and  they  were  eating  them.  The  pits  of  greengage  plums 
they  cracked  between  their  teeth  for  the  kernels  inside.  They 
picked  up  stray  crumbs  of  bread  the  size  of  peas,  apple  cores 


128  The    Cry   for    Justice 

so  black  and  dirty  one  would  not  take  them  to  be  apple  cores, 
and  these  things  these  two  men  took  into  their  mouths,  and 
chewed  them,  and  swallowed  them;  and  this,  between  six 
and  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  August  20,  year  of  our 
Lord  1902,  in  the  heart  of  the  greatest,  wealthiest,  and  mast 
powerful  empire  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

These  two  men  talked.  They  were  not  fools,  they 
were  merely  old.  And,  naturally,  their  guts  a-reek  with 
pavement  offal,  they  talked  of  bloody  revolution.  They 
talked  as  anarchists,  fanatics,  and  madmen  would  talk. 
And  who  shall  blame  them?  In  spite  of  my  three  good 
meals  that  day,  and  the  snug  bed  I  could  occupy  if  I 
wished,  and  my  social  philosophy,  and  my  evolutionary 
belief  in  the  slow  development  and  metamorphosis  of 
things — ^in  spite  of  all  this,  I  say,  I  felt  impelled  to  talk 
rot  with  them  or  hold  my  tongue.  Poor  fools!  Not 
of  their  sort  are  revolutions  bred.  And  when  they  are 
dead  and  dust,  which  will  be  shortly,  other  fools  will 
talk  bloody  revolution  as  they  gather  offal  from  the 
spittle-drenched  sidewalk  along  Mile  End  Road  to  Poplar 
Workhouse. 


By  Horace  Greeley. 
(American  editor,  1811-1872;  promment  abolitionist) 

\  yf  ORALITY  and  religion  are  but  words  to  him  who 
^^ ^  fishes  in  gutters  for  the  means  of  sustaining  life, 
and  crouches  behind  barrels  in  the  street  for  shelter 
from   the   cutting   blasts   of   a  winter  night. 


The    Outcast  129 

Wdz  ^^ant  for  tSe  3Io6    j 

{From  ' '  Pay  Envelopes  " )        \ 
By  James  Oppenheim 
(See  page  45) 

"  I  'HE  Hunt  began  early  next  morning — the  Hunt  for 
■»■  the  Job.  The  hunter,  however,  is  really  the  hunted. 
Now  and  then  he  bares  his  skin  to  the  unthinking  blows 
of  the  world,  and  runs  off  to  hide  himself  in  the  crowd. 
You  may  see  him  bobbing  along  the  turbulent  man- 
currents  of  Broadway,  a  tide-tossed  derelict  in  the 
thousand-foot  shadows  of  the  sky-scrapers.  The  mob 
about  him  is  lusty  with  purpose,  each  unit  making  his 
appointed  place,  the  morning  rush  to  work  bearing  the 
stenographer  to  her  machine,  the  broker  to  his  ticker, 
the  ironworker  to  his  sky-dangling  beam.  In  the  mighty 
machine  of  the  city  each  has  his  place,  each  is  provided 
for,  each  gets  the  glow  of  sharing  in  the  world's  work. 
The  morning  rush,  splashed  at  street  crossings  with  the 
gold  of  the  Eastern  sun,  is  rippled  with  fresh  eyes  and 
busy  lips.  They  are  all  in  the  machine.  But  our  young 
man  crouching  in  a  corner  of  the  crowded  car  is  not 
of  these;  slinkitig  down  Broadway  he  is  aware  that  the 
machine  has  thrown  him  out  and  he  cannot  get  in.  He 
is  an  exile  in  the  midst  of  his  own  people.  The  sense  of 
loneliness  and  inferiority  eats  the  heart  out  of  the  breast; 
the  good  of  life  is  gone;  the  blackness  soaks  across  the 
city  and  into  his  home,  his  love,  his  soul. 

Some  go  bitter  and  are  for  throwing  bombs;  some 
despair  and  are  for  wiping  themselves  away;  some— the 
rank  and  file — are  for  fighting  to  the  last  ditch.  Peter 
pendulated  between  all  three  of  these  moods.     In  ordi- 


ISO  The    Cry   for    Justice 

nary  times  he  would  have  been  all  fight;  in  these  hard 
times,  drenched  with  the  broadcast  hopelessness  of  men, 
he  knew  he  was  foredoomed  to  defeat.  Only  a  miracle 
could  gave  him. 

Trudging  up  Seventy-ninth  Street  to  Third  Avenue, 
fresh  with  Annie's  kiss  and  the  baby's  pranks,  he  had 
the  last  bit  of  daring  dashed  out  of  him  by  a  strange 
throng  of  men.  Before  a  small  Hebrew  synagogue, 
packed  in  the  deep  area  were  forty  unemployed  workers, 
jammed  crowd-thick  against  the  windows  and  gate.  It 
was  fresh  weather,  not  cold,  yet  the  men  shivered.  Their 
bodies  had  for  long  been  unwarmed  by  sufficient  food  or 
clothing;  there  was  a  grayness  about  them  as  of  famished 
wolves;  their  lips  and  fingers  were  blue;  they  were  im- 
shaved  and  frowzy  with  some  vile  sleeping  place.  Hard 
times  had  blotched  the  city  with  a  myriad  of  such  groups. 
And  as  Peter  stopped  and  imagined  himself  driven  at 
last  among  them,  he  saw  a  burly  fellow  emerge  from  the 
house  and  begin  handing  out  charity  bowls  of  hot  coffee 
and  charity  bread.  Peter,  independent  American  work- 
man, was  stung  at  the  sight;  the  souls  of  these  workers 
were  somehow  being  outraged;  they  were  eating  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  comfortable,  like  so  many  gutter 
dogs. 

The  rest  of  the  morning  Peter  dared  now  and  then  to 
present  himself  at  an  office  to  ask  work.  At  some  places 
he  tried  boldness,  at  others  meekness,  and  at  last  he 
begged,  "For  God's  sake,  I  have  a  wife  and  baby — " 
He  met  with  various  receptions  at  the  hands  of  clerks, 
office  boys,  and  bosses.  A  few  were  sorry,  some  turned 
their  backs,  the  rest  hurried  him  out.  Each  refusal, 
each  "not  wanted  in  the  scheme  of  things,"  shot  him 
out  into  the  streets,  stripped  of  another  bit  of  self-reliance. 


The    Outcast  131 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  began  to  feel  his  poor  appearance, 
his  drooping  hp,  his  broken  purpose.  He  was  a  failure 
and  the  world  could  not  use  him.  He  hardly  dared  to 
look  a  than  in  the  eyes,  to  lift  his  voice  above  a  whisper, 
to  make  a  demand,  to  dare  a  refusal.  He  slunk  home 
at  last  like  a  cowed  and  beaten  animal. 


{From  "The  Workers") 
By  Waiter  A.  Wyckoff 

(A  professor  in  Princeton  University  who  went  out  and  lived  for 

long  periods  as  a  laborer,  in  order  to  know  the  facts  of 

industry  at  first  hand) 

MANY  of  the  men  were  so  weakened  by  the  want 
and  hardship  of  the  winter  that  they  were  no 
longer  iu  condition  for  effective  labor.  Some  of  the 
bosses  who  were  in  need  of  added  hands  were  Obliged  to 
turn  men  away  because  of  physical  incapacity.  One 
instance  of  this  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  It  was  when 
I  overheard,  early  one  morning,  at  a  factory  gate,  an 
interview  between  a  would-be  laborer  and  the  boss.  I 
knew  the  applicant  for  a  Russian  Jew,  who  had  at  home 
an  old  mother  and  a  wife  and  two  young  children  to 
support.  He  had  had  intermittent  employment  through- 
out the  winter  in  a  sweater's  den,  barely  enough  to  keep 
them  all  alive,  and,  after  the  hardships  of  the  cold  season, 
he  was  again  in  desperate  straits  for  work. 

The  boss  had  all  but  agreed  to  take  him  on  for  some 
sort  of  imskilled  labor,  when,  struck  by  the  cadaverous 
look  of  the  man,  he  told  him  to  bare  his  arm.     Up  went 


138  The    Cry   for    Justice 

the  sleeve  of  his  coat  and  his  ragged  flannel  shirt,  expos- 
ing a  naked  arm  with  the  muscles  nearly  gone,  and  the 
blue-white  transparent  skin  stretched  over  sinews  and 
the  outline  of  the  bones.  Pitiful  beyond  words  were  his 
efforts  to  give  a  semblance  of  strength  to  the  biceps 
which  rose  faintly  to  the  upward  movement  of  the  fore- 
arm. But  the  boss  sent  him  off  with  an  oath  and  a  con- 
temptuous laugh,  and  I  watched  the  fellow  as  he  turned 
down  the  street,  facing  the  fact  of  his  starving  family 
with  a  despair  at  his  heart  which  only  mortal  man  can 
feel  and  no  mortal  tongue  can  speak. 


'ESe  ffiwati  Hint 

By  Berton  Bealey 
(Contemporary  American  poet) 

WELL,  here  they  are — they  stand  and   stamp  and 
shiver 
Waiting  their  food  from  some  kind  stranger  hand. 
Their  weary  limbs  with  eagerness  a-quiver 
Hungry  and  heartsick  in  a  bounteous  land. 

"Beggars  and  bmns?"     Perhaps,  and  largely  worthless. 

Shaky  with  drink,  unlovely,  craven,  low. 
With  obscene  tongues  and  hollow  laughter  mirthless; 

But  who  shall  give  them  scorn  for  being  so? 

Yes,  here  they  are — with  gaunt  and  pallid  faces. 
With  limbs  ill-clad  and  fingers  stiff  and  blued. 

Shuffling  and  stamping  on  their  pavement  places, 
Waiting  and  watching  for  their  bit  of  food. 


The    Outcast  ISS 

We  boast  of  vast  achievements  and  of  power, 
Of  human  progress  knowing  no  defeat, 

Of  strange  new  marvels  every  day  and  hour — 
And  here's  the  bread  line  in  the  wintry  street ! 

Ten  thousand  years  of  war  and  peace  and  glory, 
Of  hope  and  work  and  deeds  and  golden  schemes, 

Of  mighty  voices  raised  in  song  and  story, 
Of  huge  inventions  and  of  splendid  dreams; 

Ten  thousand  years  replete  with  every  wonder, 
Of  empires  risen  and  of  empires  dead; 

Yet  still,  while  wasters  roll  in  swollen  plunder. 
These  broken  men  must  stand  in  line — for  bread  I 


{From  "Past  and  Present") 

By  Thomas  Cablyle 

(See  pages  31,  74) 

AND  truly  this  first  practical  form  of  the  Sphinx- 
'  question,  inarticulately  and  so  audibly  put  there, 
is  one  of  the  most  impressive  ever  asked  in  the  world. 
"Behold  us  here,  so  many  thousands,  millions,  and  in- 
creasing at  the  rate  of  fifty  every  hour.  We  are  right 
willing  and  able  to  work;  and  on  the  Planet  Earth  is 
plenty  of  work  and  wages  for  a  million  times  as  many. 
We  ask,  If  you  mean  to  lead  us  towards  work;  to  try 
to  lead  us, — by  ways  new,  never  yet  heard  of  till  this 
new  unheard-of  Time?     Or  if  you  declare  that  you  can- 


134  The    Cry   for    Justice 

not  lead  us?  And  expect  that  we  are  to  remain  quietly 
unled,  and  in  a  composed  manner  perish  of  starvation? 
What  is  it  you  expect  of  us?  What  is  it  you  mean  to 
do  with  us?"  This  question,  I  say,  has  been  put  in  the 
hearing  of  all  Britain;  and  will  be  again  put,  and  ever 
again,  till  some  answer  be  given  it. 


By  William  Howard  Taft 
(Ex-president  of  the  United  States;  bom  1857) 

"A'X /"HAT  is  a  man  to  do  who  is  starving,  and  can- 
*  '     not  find  work?" 
"God  knows." 


By  George  Crabbe 
(See  page  29) 

THEIRS  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  parish  poor. 
Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door; 
There,  where  the  putrid  vapors  flagging  play. 
And  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents'  care; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children's  love,  dwell  there ; 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 
Forsaken  wives  and  mothers  never  wed; 
Dejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears, 
And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood-fears; 
The  lame,  the  blind,  and — far  the  happiest  they! — 
The  moping  idiot  and  the  madman  gay. 


"1   . 


..m 


^<J5l 


1 


.1*^' 


-^ 


'l-^. 


4 

-  t 


'■*fS-~f^. 


WITHOUT   A   KENNEL 

RYAN   WALKER 

{American  Socialist  cartoonist,  born  1870) 


The    Outcast  135 

Here  too  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive, 
Here  brought  amid  the  scenes  of  grief  to  grieve, 
Where  the  loud  groans  from  some  sad  chamber  flow. 
Mixed  with  the  clamors  of  the  crowd  below; 
Here,  sorrowing,  they  each  kindred  sorrow  scan, 
And  the  cold  charities  of  man  to  man: 
Whose  laws  indeed  for  ruined  age  provide, 
And  strong  compulsion  plucks  the  scrap  from  pride; 
But  still  that  scrap  is  bought  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  pride  imbitters  what  it  can't  deny. 

Say  ye,  oppressed  by  some  fantastic  woes, 

Some  jarring  nerve  that  bafHes  your  repose; 

Who  press  the  downy  couch  while  slaves  advance 

With  timid  eye,  to  read  the  distant  glance; 

Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease, 

To  name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease; 

Who  with  mock  patience  dire  complaints  endure, 

Which  real  pain  and  that  alone  can  cure: 

How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 

Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die? 

How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath 

Where  all  that's  wretched  paves  the  way  for  death? 


By  Kenko  Hoshi 
(Japanese  Buddhist  priest  of  the  Fourteenth  Century) 

T  is  desirable  for  a  ruler  that  no  man  should  suffer 
from  cold  and  hunger  under  his  rule.  Man  carmot 
maintain  his  standard  of  morals  when  he  has  no  ordinary 
means  of  living. 


I 


136  The    Cry  for    Justice 

%lt  Bwali  of  ^tfUctfon 

{From  "Children  of  the  Ghetto") 

By  Israel  Zangwill 

(English  poet  and  novelist,  born  1864;   has  written  with  tenderness 

and  charm  of  the  struggles  of  Judaism  in  contact  with 

modern  commercialism) 

At  half-past  five  the  stable-doors  were  thrown  open, 
■^*-  and  the  crowd  pressed  through  a  long,  narrow  white- 
washed stone  corridor  into  a  barn-like  compartment,  with 
a  white-washed  ceiling  traversed  by  wooden  beams. 
Within  this  compartment,  and  leaving  but  a  narrow 
c'.rcumscribing  border,  was  a  sort  of  cattle-pen,  into 
which  the  paupers  crushed,  awaiting  amid  discomfort 
and  universal  jabber  the  divine  moment.  The  single 
jet  of  gas-light  depending  from  the  ceiling  flared  tipon 
the  strange  simian  faces,  and  touched  them  into  a  gro- 
tesque picturesqueness  that  would  have  delighted  Dor6. 
They  felt  hungry,  these  picturesque  people;  their  near 
and  dear  ones  were  hungering  at  home.  Voluptuously 
savoring  in  imagination  the  operation  of  the  soup,  they 
forgot  its  operation  as  a  dole  in  aid  of  wages;  were 
unconscious  of  the  grave  economical  possibilities  of 
pauperization  and  the  rest,  and  quite  willing  to  swallow 
their  independence  with  the  soup.  Even  Esther,  who  had 
read  much,  and  was  sensitive,  accepted  unquestioningly 
the  theory  of  the  universe  that  was  held  by  most  people 
about  her,  that  hinnan  beings  were  distinguished  from 
animals  in  having  to  toil  terribly  for  a  meagre  crust,  but 
that  their  lot  was  lightened  by  the  existence  of  a  small 
and  semi-divine  class  called  Takeefim,  or  rich  people, 
who  gave  away  what  they  didn't  wa,Jit^     How  these  rich 


The    Outcast  137 

people  came  to  be,  Esther  did  not  inquire;  they  were 
as  much  a  part  of  the  constitution  of  things  as  clouds 
and  horses.  The  semi-celestial  variety  was  rarely  to  be 
met  with.  It  lived  far  away  from  the  Ghetto,  and  a 
small  family  of  it  was  said  to  occupy  a  whole  house. 
Representatives  of  it,  clad  in  rustling  silks  or  impressive 
broad-cloth,  and  radiating  an  indefinable  aroma  of  super- 
humanity,  sometimes  came  to  the  school,  preceded  by  the 
beaming  Head  Mistress;  and  then  all  the  little  girls  rose 
and  ciu-tseyed,  and  the  best  of  them,  passing  as  average 
members  of  the  class,  astonished  the  semi-divine  persons 
by  their  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  topography  of 
the  Pyrenees  and  the  disagreements  of  Saul  and  David, 
the  intercourse  of  the  two  species  ending  in  effusive 
smiles  and  general  satisfaction.  But  the  dullest  of  the 
girls  was  alive  to  the  comedy,  and  had  a  good-humored 
contempt  for  the  unworldliness  of  the  semi-divine  per- 
sons, who  spoke  to  them  as  if  they  were  not  going  to 
recommence  squabbling,  and  puUing  one  another's  hair, 
and  copying  one  another's  sums,  and  stealing  one  another's 
needles,  the  moment  the  semi-celestial  backs  were  turned. 


il2o.  5  llofin  &ttm  N. 

By  Richard  Whiteing  \ 

(English  author  and  journalist,  born  1840.      The  volume  here 

quoted  is  one  of  the  most  amazing  pictures  of  slum-life 

ever  penned) 

AFTER  midnight  the  gangs  return  in  carousal  from  the 
-  gin  shops,  the  more  thoughtful  of  them  with  stored 
liquor  for  the  morning  draft.  Now  it  is  three  stages  of 
man — no  more:    man  gushing,  confiding,  uplifted,  as  he 


138  The    Cry   for    Justice 

feels  the  effect  of  the  lighter  fumes;  disputatious,  quarrel- 
some, as  the  heavier  mount  in  a  second  brew  of  hell; 
raging  with  wrath  and  hate,  as  the  very  dregs  send  their 
emanations  to  the  tortured  brain. 

The  embrace,  the  wrangle,  and  the  blow — this  is  the 
order  of  succession.  Till  one — to  mark  it  by  the  clock — 
we  sing,  "^'Art  to  'art  an'  'and  to  'and."  At  about 
one  forty-five  you  may  expect  the  tribal  row  between 
the  gangs,  who  prey  on  one  another  for  recreation,  and 
on  society  for  a  living.  Our  brutes  read  the  current  gospel 
of  the  stirvival  of  the  fittest  in  their  own  way,  and  they 
dimly  apprehend  that  mankind  is  still  organized  as  a 
predatory  horde.  The  ever-open  door  brings  us  much 
trouble  from  the  outside.  The  unlighted  staircase  is  a 
place  of  rendezvous,  and,  not  unfrequently,  of  deadly 
quarrel,  in  undertones  of  concentrated  fury,  between 
wretches  who  seek  seclusion  for  the  work  of  manslaughter. 
Our  latest  returning  inmate,  the  other  night,  stumbled 
over  the  body  of  a  woman  not  known  at  No.  5.  She 
had  been  kicked  to  death  within  sight  and  sound  of 
lodgers  who,  believing  it  to  be  a  matrimonial  difference, 
held  interference  to  be  no  business  of  theirs. 

The  first  thud  of  war  between  the  "Hooligans"  is 
generally  for  two  sharp.  The  seconds  set  to,  along  with 
their  principals,  as  in  the  older  duel.  For  mark  that  in 
most  things  we  are  as  our  betters  were  just  so  many 
centuries  ago,  and  are  simply  belated  with  our  flint  age. 
And  now  our  shapelier  waves  of  sound  break  into  a  mere 
foam  of  oath  and  shriek.  At  times  there  is  an  interval 
of  silence  more  awful  than  the  tumult;  and  you  may 
know  that  the  knife  is  at  its  silent  work,  and  that  the 
whole  meaner  conflict  is  suspended  for  an  episode  of 
tragedy.     If  it  is  a  hospital  case,  it  closes  the  celebra- 


The    Outcast  139 

tion.  If  it  is  not,  the  entertainmeut  probably  dies  out 
in  a  slanging  match  between  two  of  the  fair;  and  the 
unnamable  in  invective  and  vituperation  rises,  as  in 
blackest  vapor,  from  our  pit  to  the  sky.  At  this,  every 
room  that  holds  a  remnant  of  decency  closes  its  window, 
and  all  withdraw,  except,  perhaps,  the  little  boys  and 
girls,  who  are  beginning  to  pair  according  to  the  laws 
of  the  ooze  and  of  the  shme.  .  .  . 


i^igSt  in  t6c  &lum0* 

{From  "  The  People  of  the  Abyss") 

By  Jack  London 

(See  pages  62, 125) 

T  WAS  glad  the  keepers  were  there,  for  I  did  not  have 
■^  on  my  "seafaring"  clothes,  and  I  was  what  is  called 
a  "mark"  for  the  creatm^es  of  prey  that  prowled  up 
and  down.  At  times,  between  keepers,  these  males 
looked  at  me  sharply,  hungrily,  gutter-wolves  that  they 
were,  and  I  was  afraid  of  their  hands,  of  their  naked 
hands,  as  one  may  be  afraid  of  the  paws  of  a  gorilla. 
They  reminded  me  of  gorillas.  Their  bodies  were  small, 
ill-shaped,  and  squat.  There  were  no  swelling  muscles, 
no  abundant  thews  and  wide-spreading  shoulders.  They 
exhibited,  rather,  an  elemental  economy  of  nature,  such 
as  the  cave-men  must  have  exhibited.  But  there  was 
strength  in  those  meagre  bodies,  the  ferocious,  primordial 
strength  to  clutch  and  tear  and  gripe  and  rend.  When 
they  spring  upon  their  human  prey  they  are  known  even 
to  bend  the  victim  backward  and  double  its  body  till 

*  By  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Co. 


14-0  The    Cry   for    Justice 

the  back  is  broken.  They  possess  neither  conscience  nor 
sentiment,  and  they  will  kill  for  half  a  sovereign,  without 
fear  or  favor.  .  .  . 

The  dear  soft  people  of  the  golden  theatres  and  wonder- 
mansions  of  the  West  End  do  not  see  these  creatures, 
do  not  dream  that  they  exist.  But  they  are  here,  alive, 
very  much  alive  in  their  jungle.  And  woe  the  day  when 
England  is  fighting  in  her  last  trench,  and  her  able- 
bodied  men  are  on  the  firing  line!  For  on  that  day  they 
will  crawl  out  of  their  dens  and  lairs,  and  the  people  of 
the  West  End  will  see  them,  as  the  dear  soft  aristocrats 
of  Feudal  France  saw  them  and  asked  one  another, 
"Whence  come  they?"     "Are  they  men?" 

But  they  were  not  the  only  beasts  that  ranged  the 
menagerie.  They  were  only  here  and  there,  lurking  in 
dark  courts  and  passing  like  grey  shadows  along  the 
walls;  but  the  women  from  whose  rotten  loins  they 
spring  were  everywhere.  They  whined  insolently,  and 
in  maudlin  tones  begged  me  for  pennies,  and  worse. 
They  held  carouse  in  every  boozing  den,  slatternly,  un- 
kempt, bleary-eyed,  and  tousled,  leering  and  gibbering, 
overspilling  with  foulness  and  corruption,  and,  gone  in 
debauch,  sprawling  across  benches  and  bars,  unspeakably 
repulsive,  fearful  to  look  upon. 

And  there  were  others,  strange,  weird  faces  and  forms 
and  twisted  monstrosities  that  shouldered  me  on  every 
side,  inconceivable  types  of  sodden  ugliness,  the  wrecks 
of  society,  the  perambulating  carcasses,  the  liAong  deaths 
— women,  blasted  by  disease  and  drink  till  their  shame 
brought  not  tuppence  in  the  open  mart;  and  men,  in 
fantastic  rags,  wrenched  by  hardship  and  exposure  out 
of  all  semblance  of  men,  their  faces  in  a  perpetual  writhe 
of  pain,  grinning  idiotically,  shambling  like  apes,  dying 


The    Outcast  I4I 

with  every  step  they  took  and  every  breath  they  drew. 
And  there  were  young  girls,  of  eighteen  and  twenty,  with 
trim  bodies  and  faces  yet  untouched  with  twist  and 
bloat,  who  had  fetched  the  bottom  of  the  Abyss  plump, 
in  one  swift  fall.  And  I  remember  a  lad  of  fourteen, 
and  one  of  six  or  seven,  white-faced  and  sickly,  homeless, 
the  pair  of  them,  who  sat  upon  the  pavement  with  their 
backs  against  a  railing  and  watched  it  all.  .  .  . 

The  unfit  and  the  unneeded!  The  miserable  and 
despised  and  forgotten,  dying  in  the  social  shambles. 
The  progeny  of  prostitution — of  the  prostitution  of  men 
and  women  and  children,  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  sparkle 
and  spirit;  in  brief,  the  prostitution  of  labor.  If  this 
is  the  best  that  civilization  can  do  for  the  human,  then 
give  us  howling  and  naked  savagery.  Far  better  to  be 
a  people  of  the  wilderness  and  desert,  of  the  cave  and 
the  squatting  place,  than  to  be  a  people  of  the  machine 
and  the  Abyss. 


Si  msWH  fLobsins 

By  Maxim  Gorky 

(A  true  voice  of  the  Russian  masses,  born  1868;  by  turns  ped- 
ler,  scullery-boy,  baker's  assistant  and  tramp,  he  became  aU  at 
once  the  most  widely  known  of  Russian  writers.  In  this  play  he 
has  portrayed  the  misery  of  the  outcasts  of  his  country.  The 
scene  is  in  the  cellar  of  an  iim,  the  haunt  of  thieves  and  tramps. 
Luka,  the  aged  pilgrim,  is  talking  to  a  young  girl) 

T    UKA: — Treat  everyone  with  friendliness — injm-e  no 
■'— '  one. 

Natasha: — How  good  you  are,  grandfather!  How  is 
it  that  you  are  so  good? 


142  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Ltjka: — I  am  good,  you  say.  Nyah — if  it  is  true,  all 
right.  But  you  see,  my  girl — ^there  must  be  some  one 
to  be  good.  We  must  have  pity  on  mankind.  Christ, 
remember,  had  pity  for  us  all  and  so  taught  us.  Have 
pity  when  there  is  still  time,  beheve  me,  that  is  right. 
I  was  once,  for  example,  employed  as  a  watchman,  at 
a  country  place  which  belonged  to  an  engineer,  not  far 
from  the  city  of  Tomsk,  in  Siberia.  The  house  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  forest,  an  out-of-the-way  location; 
and  it  was  winter  and  I  was  all  alone  in  the  country 
house.  It  was  beautiful  there — ^magnificent!  And  once — 
I  heard  them  scrambling  up! 

Natasha  : — Thieves? 

Luka: — Yes.  They  crept  higher,  and  I  took  my  rifle 
and  went  outside.  I  looked  up — two  men,  opening  a 
window,  and  so  busy  that  they  did  not  see  anything 
of  me  at  all.  I  cried  to  them:  Hey,  there,  get  out  of 
that!  And  would  you  think  it,  they  fell  on  me  with  a 
hand  ax!  I  warned  them.  Halt,  I  cried,  or  else  I  fire! 
Then  I  aimed  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other.  They 
fell  on  their  knees  saying.  Pardon  us!  I  was  pretty 
hot — on  account  of  the  hand  ax,  you  remember.  You 
devils,  I  cried,  I  told  you  to  clear  out  and  you  didn't! 
And  now,  I  Said,  one  of  you  go  into  the  brush  and  get 
a  switch.  It  was  done.  And  now,  I  commanded,  one 
of  you  stretch  out  on  the  ground,  and  the  other  thrash 
him.  And  so  they  whipped  each  other  at  my  command. 
And  when  they  had  each  had  a  sound  beating,  they  said 
to  me:  Grandfather,  said  they,  for  the  sake  of  Christ 
give  us  a  piece  of  bread.  We  haven't  a  bite  in  our  bodies. 
They,  my  daughter,  were  the  thieves  who  had  fallen  upon 
me  with  the  hand  ax.  Yes,  they  were  a  pair  of  splendid 
fellows.     I  said  to  them,  If  you  had  asked  for  bread! 


The    Outcast  143 

Then  they  answered:  We  had  gotten  past  that.  We  had 
asked  and  asked,  and  nobody  would  give  us  anything. 
Endurance  was  worn  out.  Nyah — and  so  they  remained 
with  me  the  whole  winter.  One  of  them,  Stephen  by 
name,  liked  to  take  the  rifle  and  go  into  the  woods. 
And  the  other,  Jakoff,  was  constantly  ill,  always  cough- 
ing. The  three  of  us  watched  the  place,  and  when  spring 
came,  they  said.  Farewell,  grandfather,  and  went  away — 
to  Russia. 

Natasha: — Were  they  convicts,  escaping? 

Luka: — They  were  fugitives — they  had  left  their 
colony.  A  pair  of  splendid  fellows.  If  I  had  not  had 
pity  on  them — who  knows  what  would  have  happened? 
They  might  have  killed  me.  Then  they  would  be  taken 
to  court  again,  put  in  prison,  sent  back  to  Siberia — why 
all  that?  You  can  learn  nothing  good  in  prison,  nor  in 
Siberia.     But  a  man,  what  can  he  not  learn! 


(Night  in  a  County  Workhouse) 
By  Upton  Sinclair 

OH  come,  ye  lords  and  ladies  of  the  realm. 
Come  from  your  couches  soft,  your  perfumed  halls. 
Come  watch  with  me  throughout  the  weary  hours. 
Here  are  there  sounds  to  thrill  your  jaded  nerves. 
Such  as  the  cave-men,  your  forefathers,  heard. 
Crouching  in  forests  of  primeval  night; 
Here  tier  on  tier  in  steel-barred  cages  pent 
The  beasts  ye  breed  and  hunt  throughout  the  world. 


^44  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Hark  to  that  snore — some  beast  that  slumbers  deep; 
Hark  to  that  roar — some  beast  that  dreams  of  blood ; 
Hark  to  that  moan — some  beast  that  wakes  and  weeps; 
And  then  in  sudden  stillness  mark  the  sound — 
Some  beast  that  rasps  his  vermin-haunted  hide! 

Oh  come,  ye  lords  and  ladies  of  the  realm, 
Come  keep  the  watch  with  me;  this  show  is  yours. 
Behold  the  source  of  all  your  joy  and  pride, 
The  beasts  ye  harness  fast  and  set  to  draw 
The  chariots  of  your  pageantry  and  pomp! 
It  is  their  blood  ye  shed  to  make  your  feasts. 
It  is  their  treadmill  that  moves  all  your  world. 
Come  gather  now,  and  think  how  it  will  be 
When  God  shall  send  his  flaming  angel  down 
And  break  these  bars — so  hath  he  done  of  yore. 
So  doeth  he  to  lords  and  ladies  grand — 
And  loose  these  beasts  to  raven  in  your  streets! 


a  Sentiment  on  Social  Kcform 

By  Eugene  V.  Debs 

(American  locomotive  engineer;   born  1855;   president  of  his  union, 
and  later  the  best  known  of  American  Socialist  lecturers) 

WHILE  there  is  a  lower  class,  I  am  in  it. 
While  there  is  a  criminal  element,  I  am  of  it. 
While  there  is  a  soul  in  jail,  I  am  not  free. 


The    Outcast  U5 

{From  "My  Life  in  Prison")  1 

By  Donald  Loweie         '' 

(The  writer  of  this  picture  of  prison  hfe,  after  serving  a  sentence  of 

fifteen  years  in  San  Quenfcin,  has  become  one  of  the  leaders 

in  the  prison  reform  movement  in  CaUfornia) 

T TE  was  a  thin  young  man  of  mediiim  height,  with 

^  ^  long,  straggly  blonde  hair  and  beard.  He  was 
garbed  in  a  ragged  suit  of  dirty  stripes.  His  steel-gray 
eyes  blinked  as  though  the  light  hurt  them,  and  yet  they 
were  very  alert,  and  there  was  a  defiance,  an  indomitable- 
ness  in  their  depths.  They  protruded  slightly,  as  the 
eyes  of  persons  who  have  sxiffered  so  frequently  do. 
The  lines  radiating  from  the  corners  bespoke  mental  as 
well  as  physical  distress,  as  did  the  spasmodic  twitching 
of  his  mouth.  His  skin  was  akin  to  the  color  of  a  thirsty 
road  and  his  garments  looked  as  though  he  had  not  had 
them  off  for  months — ^the  knees  and  elbows  bulged  and 
the  frayed  edges  of  the  coat  curled  under.  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  warring  within  me.  I  had  not  yet  learned 
who  he  was,  and  still  I  knew  I  was  gazing  at  a  human 
creature  who  had  been  through  hell.  .  .  . 

"Treat  Morrell  right,"  admonished  the  lieutenant  as 
he  withdrew  from  the  room  and  left  us  together. 

Morrell!  The  notorious  "Ed"  Morrell,  about  whom  I 
had  heard  so  much,  and  who  had  been  confined  in  the 
"incorrigibles"  for  five  years! 

The  majority  of  the  prisoners,  as  well  as  the  freemen,- 
believed  him  innocent  of  the  offence  with  which  he  had 
been  charged  and  for  which  he  had  been  subjected  to 

10 


146  The    Cry   for    justice 

such  awful  punishment.  So  this  man  was  Ed  Morrell! 
No  wonder  I  had  been  agitated.  .  .  . 

He  arose  from  the  chair  and  stood  dejectedly  while 
I  took  the  necessary  measurements,  and  then  I  led  the 
way  to  the  back  room,  where  the  bathtub  was  located. 
I  started  to  return  to  the  front  room  for  the  purpose 
of  marking  his  clothes,  but  he  stopped  me. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  urged.  "Wait  and  see  what  a 
man  looks  like  after  five  years  in  hell.  I  was  a  husky 
when  I  went  up  there,  hard  as  nails  and  full  of  red  blood, 
but  look  at  me  now." 

While  speaking,  he  had  dropped  off  the  outer  rags,  and 
a  moment  after  stood  nude  beside  the  tub  of  warm  water. 
The  enormity  of  what  he  had  suffered  could  not  have 
been  more  forcibly  demonstrated.  His  limbs  were  hor- 
ribly emaciated,  the  knee,  elbow,  and  shoulder  bones 
stood  out  like  huge  knots  through  the  drawn  and  yellow 
skin,  while  his  ribs  reminded  me  of  the  carcass  of  a  sheep 
hanging  in  front  of  a  butcher's  establishment.  The  hol- 
lows between  them  were  deep  and  dark.  I  thought  of 
the  picture  I  had  seen  of  the  famine-stricken  wretches 
of  India.  .  .  . 

"What  are  those  scars  on  your  back?"  I  asked  as  he 
sank  onto  his  knees  in  the  water. 

"Scars,"  he  laughed,  sardonically.  "Scars?  Those 
ain't  scars.  They're  only  the  marks  where  the  devil 
prodded  me.  I  was  in  the  jacket,  cinched  up  so  that 
I  was  breathing  from  my  throat  when  he  came  and  tried 
to  make  me  '  come  through,'  and  when  I  sneered  at  him 
he  kicked  me  over  the  kidneys.  I  don't  know  how  many 
times  he  kicked;  the  first  kick  took  my  breath  away 
and  I  saw  black,  but  after  they  took  me  out  of  the  sack 
I  couldn't  get  up,  and  I  had  running  sores  down  here 


The    Outcast  147 

for  months  afterwards.  I  ain't  right  down  there  now; 
I've  got  a  bad  rupture,  and  sometimes  it  feels  as  if  there 
was  a  knife  being  twisted  around  inside  of  me.  It  wouldn't 
be  so  bad  if  they'd  got  me  right,  but  to  give  a  man  a  deal 
Hke  that  dead  wrong  is  hell,  let  me  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

As  we  stepped  into  the  barber  shop  there  was  a  notice- 
able air  of  expectancy.  The  word  had  passed  through 
the  prison  that  the  new  warden  had  released  "Ed" 
Morrell  from  "solitary."  All  but  one  of  the  half  dozen 
barbers  were  strangers  to  Morrell.  They  had  been  com- 
mitted to  the  prison  after  his  siege  of  solitary  confine- 
ment had  begun.  The  one  exception  was  old  Frank,  a 
lifer  with  twenty  years'  service  behind  him.  .  .  . 

He  took  a  step  backward  and  a  hush  fell  over  the 
httle  group. 

"With  all  due  respect,  Ed,  you're  the  finest  living 
picture  of  Jesus  Christ  that  I've  ever  seen,  so  help  me 
God.  And,  Ed,"  he  added,  hastily,  his  voice  breaking, 
"we're  all  Jesus  Christfe,  if  we'd  only  remember  it." 


Prfsfons 

By  Emma  Goldman 
(Anarchist  lecturer  and  writer;   born  in  Russia,  1869) 

YEAR  after  year  the  gates  of  prison  hells  return  to 
the  world  an  emaciated,  deformed,  will-less  ship- 
wrecked crew  of  himianity,  with  the  Cain  mark  on  their 
foreheads,  their  hopes  crushed,  all  their  natural  inclina- 
tions thwarted.  With  nothing  but  hunger  and  inhu- 
manity to  greet  them,  these  victims  soon  sink  back  into 
crime  as  the  only  possibility  of  existence.     It  is  not  at 


48  The    Cry   for    Justice 

11  an  unusual  thing  to  find  men  and  women  who  have 
sent  half  their  lives — ^nay,  almost  their  entire  existence — 
L  prison.  I  know  a  woman  on  Blackwell's  Island,  who 
as  been  in  and  out  thirty-eight  times;  and  through  a 
lend  I  learn  that  a  young  boy  of  seventeen,  whom  he 
a,d  nursed  and  cared  for  in  the  Pittsburgh  penitentiary, 
ad  never  known  the  meaning  of  liberty.  From  the 
iformatory  to  the  penitentiary  had  been  the  path  of 
lis  boy's  life,  until,  broken  in  body,  he  died  a  victim 
"  social  revenge.  These  personal  experiences  are  sub- 
lantiated  by  extensive  data  giving  overwhelming  proof 
■  the  futility  of  prisons  as  a  means  of  deterrence  or 
iform. 


{From  "Resurrection") 
By  Leo  Tolstoy 
(See  pages  88,  110) 

'  TT  is  just  as  if  a  problem  had  been  set:  to  find  the 
■*■  best,  the  surest  means,  of  depraving  the  greatest 
Limber  of  people!"  thought  Nehludof,  while  getting  an 
sight  into  the  deeds  that  were  being  done  in  the  prisons 
id  halting-stations.  Every  year  hundreds  of  thousands 
ere  brought  to  the  highest  pitch  of  depravity,  and  when 
)mpletely  depraved  they  were  liberated  to  spread  broad- 
ist  the  moral  disease  they  had  caught  in  prison. 
In  the  prisons  of  Tum6n,  Ekaterinburg,  Tomsk,  and  at 
le  halting-stations,  Nehludof  saw  how  successfully  the 
DJect  society  seemed  to  have  set  itself  was  attained, 
rdinary  simple  men  holding  the  Russian  peasant  social 


The    Outcast  149 

and  Christian  morality  lost  this  conception,  and  formed 
a  new,  prison,  one  founded  chiefly  on  the  idea  that  any 
outrage  to  or  violation  of  human  beings  is  justifiable,  if  it 
seems  profitable.  After  living  in  prison  these  people 
became  conscious  with  the  whole  of  their  being  that, 
judging  by  what  was  happening  to  themselves,  all  those 
moral  laws  of  respect  and  sympathy  for  others  which 
the  Church  and  the  moral  teachers  preach,  were  set  aside 
in  real  life,  and  that  therefore  they,  too,  need  not  keep  these 
laws.  Nehludof  noticed  this  effect  of  prison  life  in  all  the 
prisoners  he  knew.  He  learnt,  during  his  journey,  that 
tramps  who  escape  into  the  marshes  will  persuade  com- 
rades to  escape  with  them,  and  will  then  kill  them  and 
feed  on  their  flesh.  He  saw  a  living  man  who  was  accused 
of  this,  and  acknowledged  the  act.  And  the  most  terrible 
thing  was,  that  this  was  not  a  solitary  case  of  cannibalism, 
but  that  the  thing  was  continually  recurring. 

Only  by  a  special  cultivation  of  vice  such  as  was  carried 
on  in  these  establishments,  could  a  Russian  be  brought  to 
the  state  of  these  tramps,  who  excelled  Nietzsche's  newest 
teaching,  holding  everything  aflowable  and  nothing  for- 
bidden, and  spreading  this  teaching,  first  among  the  con- 
victs and  then  among  the  people  in  general. 

The  only  explanation  of  what  was  being  done  was  that 
it  aimed  at  the  prevention  of  crime,  at  inspiring  awe,  at 
correcting  offenders,  and  at  dealing  out  to  them  "lawful 
vengeance,"  as  the  books  said.  But  in  reality  nothing  in 
the  least  resembling  these  results  came  to  pass.  Instead 
of  vice  being  put  a  stop  to,  it  only  spread  farther;  instead 
of  being  frightened,  the  criminals  were  encouraged  (many 
a  tramp  returned  to  prison  of  his  own  free  will) ;  instead 
of  correction,  every  kind  of  vice  was  systematically 
instilled;    while  the  desire  for  vengeance,  far  from  being 


150  The    Cry  for    Justice 

weakened  by  the  measures  of  Government,  was  instilled 
into  the  people  to  whom  it  was  not  natural. 

"Then  why  is  it  done?"     Nehludof  asked  himself,  and 
could  find  no  answer. 


From  the  Psalms 

HE  hath  looked  down  from  the  height  of  his  sanc- 
tuary ...  to  hear  the  sighing  of  the  prisoner;   to 
loose  those  that  are  appointed  to  death. 


IBallatrr  of  a^isiet?  anlr  Uron 

By  George  Carter 

(Some  years  ago  the  Century  Magazine  received  several  poems 
from  an  inmate  of  the  State  pentitentiary  of  Minnesota.  Upon 
investigation  it  was  found  that  the  poet,  a  young  Englishman,  had 
been  driven  to  steaUng  by  starvation.  Subsequently  his  pardon  was 
procured) 

T TAGGARD  faces  and  trembling  knees, 

■*•    -^     Eyes  that  shine  with  a  weakling's  hate. 

Lips  that  mutter  their  blasphemies. 
Murderous  hearts  that  darkly  wait: 
These  are  they  who  were  men  of  late, 

Fit  to  hold  a  plow  or  a  sword. 

If  a  prayer  this  wall  may  penetrate. 

Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades.  Lord ! 

Poets  sing  of  hfe  at  the  lees 

In  tender  verses  and  delicate ; 
Of  tears  and  manifold  agonies — 

Little  they  know  of  what  they  prate. 


The    Outcast  151 

Out  of  this  silence,  passionate 
Sounds  a  deeper,  a  wilder  chord. 

If  sound  be  heard  through  the  narrow  grate. 
Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades,  Lord! 

Hark,  that  wail  of  the  distant  breeze, 

Piercing  ever  the  close-barred  gate. 
Fraught  with  torturing  memories 

Of  eyes  that  kindle  and  lips  that  mate. 

Ah,  by  the  loved  ones  desolate. 
Whose  anguish  never  can  pen  record, 

If  thou  be  truly  compassionate. 
Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades.  Lord! 

L'Envoi 

These  are  pawns  that  the  hand  of  Fate 
Careless  sweeps  from  the  checker-board. 

Thou  that  know'st  if  the  game  be  straight. 
Have  pity  on  these  my  comrades.  Lord! 


By  Kenko  Hoshi 
(See  page  135) 

SO  long  as  people,  being  ill-governed,  suffer  from 
hunger,  criminals  will  never  disappear.  It  is 
extremely  imkind  to  punish  those  who,  being  sufferers 
from  hunger,  are  compelled  to  violate  laws. 


>^  The    Cry   for    Justice 

W^t  Eeti  Kobe 

By  Eugene  Brietxx 

(French  dramatist,  born  1858;  author  of  a  series  of  powerful 
imas  exposing  the  sources  of  corruption  in  French  social, 
[itical  and  business  life.  The  present  play  has  for  its  theme 
!  law  as  a  snare  for  the  feet  of  the  poor  a,nd  friendless.  The 
ncipal  character  is  a  government  prosecuting  attorney,  driven 
professional  ambition  and  jealousy,  and  the  nagging  of  his 
'e  and  daughters.  A  murder  has  been  committed,  and  the 
repapers  are  scolding  because  the  criminal  has  not  been  caught, 
spicion  falls  upon  a  poor  wretch  of  a  smuggler,  who  is  hounded 
i  bullied  into  incriminating  himself.  At  the  last  moment,  when 
!  case  is  in  the  hands  of  the  jury,  the  prosecuting  attorney's  con- 
Bnoe  is  troubled,  and  he  realizes  that  he  is  sending  an  innocent 
,n  to  the  gaUows) 

/fME.  VAGRET: — But — these  circumstances,  how 
^  -*•  could  you  have  ignored  them  up  to  now? 
Vagret  {his  head  bowed): — You  think  I  have  ignored 
3m? — Would  I  dare  to  tell  you  all?  I  am  not  a  bad 
m,  you'd  grant?  I  wouldn't  desire  that  anyone  should 
ffer  through  my  fault.  Well! — Oh!  but  how  it  shames 
5  to  confess  it,  to  say  it  aloud,  after  having  confessed 
to  myself  I  Well!  When  I  studied  this  case,  I  had  got 
30  fixed  in  my  head,  in  advance,  that  this  fellow  Etche- 
re  was  a  criminal,  that  when  an  argument  in  his  favor 
3sented  itself  to  my  mind,  I  kept  it  away  from  me, 
'ugging  my  shoulders.  As  to  the  facts  about  which  I  am 
ling  you,  and  from  which  suddenly  my  doubt  has  been 
rn — at  first  I  sought  only  to  prove  to  myself  that  these 
its  were  false,  taldng,  in  the  testimony  of  the  witnesses, 
ly  what  would  combat  their  exactness,  repelling  all  the 
t,  with  a  frightful  naivete  in  my  bad  faith. — And  in  the 
i,  to  dissipate  my  last  scruples,  I  said  to  myself,  like 


The    Outcast  153 

you:  "It  is  the  affair  of  the  defense,  not  mine!"  Listen 
and  see  to  just  what  point  the  exercise  of  the  profession  of 
prosecutor  renders  us  unjust  and  cruel;  I  had,  myself 
— I  had  a  thrill  of  joy  at  first,  when  I  saw  that  the  judge, 
in  his  questioning,  left  in  the  shadow  the  sum  of  those 
Uttle  facts.  There,  that  is  the  trade!  you  understand, 
the  trade !    Ah !  poor  creatures  that  we  are,  poor  creatures ! 

Mme.  Vagret: — Possibly  the  jury  may  not  condemn 
him? 

Vageet: — It  will  condemn  him. 

Mme.  Vagret: — Or  that  it  will  admit  some  extenuating 
circumstances. 

Vagret: — ^No.  I  urged  them  too  emphatically  against 
this.    Was  I  not  ardent  enough,  my  God!  violent  enough? 

Mme.  Vagret: — That's  true.  Why  should  you  have 
developed  your  argument  with  so  much  passion? 

Vagret: — ^Ah!  why!  why!  Long  before  the  session,  it 
was  so  well  understood  by  everyone  that  the  accused 
was  the  culprit!  And  then,  everyone  was  trying  to 
rouse  my  dander,  trying  to  make  me  drunlc!  I  was  the 
spokesman  for  hxmianity,  I  had  to  reassure  the  country, 
bring  peace  to  the  family — I  don't  know  what  all  else! 
My  first  demands  were  comparatively  moderate.  But 
when  I  saw  that  famous  advocate  make  the  jury  weep, 
I  thought  I  was  lost;  I  felt  that  the  case  was  getting 
away  from  me.  Contrary  to  my  custom,  I  made  a  reply. 
When  I  stood  up  again,  I  was  like  a  combattant  who 
goes  to  meet  defeat,  and  who  fights  with  desperation. 
From  that  moment,  Etchepare  no  longer  existed,  so  to 
speak.  I  no  longer  had  the  care  to  defend  society,  or 
to  maintain  the  accusation — I  was  fighting  against  that 
advocate;  it  was  a  tourney  of  orators,  a  contest  of  actors; 
I  had  to  come  out  the  conqueror  at  all  hazards.     I  had  to 


BJf.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

onvince  the  jury,  to  seize  it  and  tear  from  it  the  "Yes" 
f  a  verdict.     It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  Etchepare, 

tell  you;  it  was  a  question  of  myself,  of  my  vanity, 
f  my  reputation,  of  my  honor,  of  my  future.  It's 
bameful,  I  repeat,  it's  shameful!  At  any  cost,  I  wanted 
0  avoid  the  acquittal  which  I  felt  was  certain.     And 

was  possessed  by  such  a  fear  of  not  succeeding,  that  I 
mployed  all  the  arguments,  good  and  bad — even  those 
^hich  consisted  in  representing  to  those  frightened  men 
tieir   homes   in   flames,   their  loved   ones   assassinated. 

spoke  of  the  vengeance  of  God  upon  judges  who  had 
o  severity.  And  all  that  in  good  faith — or  rather  with- 
ut  consciousness,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  in  a  fit  of  passion 
gainst  the  advocate  whom  I  hated  with  all  my  forces.  .  . 
'he  success  was  even  greater  than  I  could  have  wished; 
le  jury  is  ready  to  obey  me,  and  for  myself,  my  dear — 

let  myself  be  congratulated,  and  I  pressed  the  hands 
rhich  were  held  out  to  me. — That's  what  it  is  to  be  a 
rosecutor! 

Mme.  Vageet: — Console  yourself.  There  are  perhaps 
ot  ten  men  in  France  who  would  have  acted  otherwise. 

Vagret: — You  are  right.  Only — ^if  one  reflects,  it 
;  precisely  that  which  is  frightful. 


By  Kenko  Hoshi 
(See  pages  135,  151) 

■PHE    governing    class    should    stop    their    luxurious/ 
■'-     expenditures  in  order  to  help  the  governed  class. 
or  only  when  a  man  has  been  provided  with  the  ordinary 
leans  of  living,  and  yet  steals,  may  he  be  really  called 
thief. 


The    Outcast  155 

{From  "  The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol") 

By  Oscar  Wilde 

(English  poet  and  dramatist,  1856-1900,  leader  of  the  so-caUed 
"esthetes."  The  poem  from  which  these  extracts  are  taken  was 
the  fruit  of  his  long  imprisonment,  and  is  one  of  the  most  moving 
and  terrible  narratives  in  English  poetry) 

WITH  slouch  and  swing  around  the  ring 
We  trod  the  Fools'  Parade; 
We  did  not  care;  we  knew  we  were 

The  Devil's  Own  Brigade : 
And  shaven  head  and  feet  of  lead 
Make  a  merry  masquerade. 

We  tore  the  tarry  rope  to  shreds 

With  blunt  and  bleeding  nails; 
We  rubbed  the  doors,  and  scrubbed  the  floors, 

And  cleaned  the  shining  rails: 
And,  rank  by  rank,  we  soaped  the  plank, 

And  clattered  with  the  pails. 

We  sewed  the  sacks,  we  broke  the  stones, 

We  turned  the  dusty  drill: 
We  banged  the  tins,  and  bawled  the  hymns. 

And  sweated  on  the  mill: 
But  in  the  heart  of  every  man 

Terror  was  lying  still. 

So  still  it  lay  that  every  day 

Crawled  hke  a  weed-clogged  wave; 

And  we  forgot  the  bitter  lot 
That  waits  for  fool  and  knave, 

Till  once,  as  we  tramped  in  from  work. 
We  passed  an  open  grave. 


'6  The    Cry   for    Justice 

With  yawning  mouth  the  yellow  hole 

Gaped  for  a  living  thing; 
The  very  mud  cried  out  for  blood 

To  the  thirsty  asphalt  ring: 
And  we  knew  that  ere  one  dawn  grew  fair 

Some  prisoner  had  to  swing. 

Right  in  we  went,  with  soul  intent 

On  Death  and  Dread  and  Doom: 
The  hangman,  with  his  little  bag. 

Went  shuffling  through  the  gloom: 
And  each  man  trembled  as  he  crept 

Into  his  numbered  tomb. 

That  night  the  empty  corridors 

Were  full  of  forms  of  Fear, 
And  up  and  down  the  iron  town 

Stole  feet  we  could  not  hear, 
And  through  the  bars  that  hide  the  stars 

White  faces  seemed  to  peer.  .  .  . 

We  were  as  men  who  through  a  fen 

Of  filthy  darkness  grope : 
We  did  not  dare  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

Or  to  give  our  anguish  scope: 
Something  was  dead  in  each  of  us, 

And  what  was  dead  was  Hope. 

For  Man's  grim  Justice  goes  its  way. 

And  will  not  swerve  aside : 
It  slays  the  weak,  it  slays  the  strong. 

It  has  a  deadly  stride: 
With  iron  heel  it  slays  the  strong. 

The  monstrous  parricide " 


The    Outcast  167 

We  waited  for  the  stroke  of  eight : 
Each  tongue  was  thick  with  thirst: 

For  the  stroke  of  eight  is  the  stroke  of  Fate 
That  makes  a  man  accursed, 

And  Fate  will  use  a  running  noose 
For  the  best  man  and  the  worst 

We  had  no  other  thing  to  do, 

Save  to  wait  for  the  sign  to  come : 

So,  like  things  of  stone  in  a  valley  lone. 
Quiet  we  sat  and  dumb : 

But  each  man's  heart  beat  thick  and  quick 
Like  a  madman  on  a  drum! 

With  sudden  shock  the  prison-clock 

Smote  on  the  shivering  air. 
And  from  all  the  gaol  rose  up  a  wail 

Of  impotent  despair, 
Like  the  sound  that  frightened  marshes  hear 

From  some  leper  in  his  lair. 

And  as  one  sees  most  fearful  things 

In  the  crystal  of  a  dream, 
We  saw  the  greasy  hempen  rope 

Hooked  to  the  blackened  beam, 
And  heard  the  prayer  the  hangman's  snare 

Strangled  into  a  scream. 

And  all  the  woe  that  moved  him  so 

That  he  gave  that  bitter  cry. 
And  the  wild  regrets,  and  the  bloody  sweats, 

None  knew  so  well  as  I : 
For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one 

More  deaths  than  one  must  die. 


58  The    Cry   for    Justice 

There  is  no  chapel  on  the  day 

On  which  they  hang  a  man: 
The  Chaplain's  heart  is  far  too  sick, 

Or  his  face  is  far  too  wan, 
Or  there  is  that  written  in  his  eyes 

Which  none  should  look  upon. 

So  they  kept  us  close  till  nigh  on  noon, 

And  then  they  rang  the  bell, 
And  the  Warders  with  their  jingling  keys 

Opened  each  listening  cell, 
And  down  the  iron  stairs  we  tramped. 

Each  from  his  separate  Hell. 

Out  into  God's  sweet  air  we  went. 

But  not  in  wonted  way, 
For  this  man's  face  was  white  with  fear. 

And  that  man's  face  was  grey, 
And  I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 

So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  that  Uttle  tent  of  blue 

We  prisoners  call  the  sky. 
And  at  every  careless  cloud  that  passed 

In  happy  freedom  by.  •  .  = 

The  Warders  strutted  up  and  down, 

And  kept  their  herd  of  brutes, 
Their  uniforms  were  spick  and  span, 

And  they  were  their  Sunday  suits. 
But  we  knew  the  work  they  had  been  at 

By  the  quicklime  on  their  boots. 


The    Outcast  159 

For  where  a  grave  had  opened  wide 

There  was  no  grave  at  all: 
Only  a  stretch  of  mud  and  sand 

By  the  hideous  prison-wall, 
And  a  little  heap  of  burning  lime, 

That  the  man  should  have  his  pall. 

For  he  has  a  pall,  this  wretched  man, 

Such  as  few  men  can  claim; 
Deep  down  below  a  prison-yard, 

Naked  for  greater  shame, 
He  lies,  with  fetters  on  each  foot. 

Wrapt  in  a  sheet  of  flame!  .  .  . 

I  know  not  whether  Laws  be  right, 

Or  whether  Laws  be  wrong; 
All  that  we  know  who  lie  in  jail 

Is  that  the  wall  is  strong; 
And  that  each  day  is  like  a  year, 

A  year  whose  days  are  long. 

But  this  I  know,  that  every  Law 

That  men  have  made  for  Man, 
Since  first  Man  took  his  brother's  life, 

And  the  sad  world  began. 
But  straws  the  wheat  and  saves  the  chaff 

With  a  most  evil  fan. 

This  too  I  know — and  wise  it  were 

If  each  could  know  the  same — 
That  every  prison  that  men  build 

Is  built  with  bricks  of  shame. 
And  bound  with  bars  lest  Christ  should  see 

How  men  their  brothers  maim. 


>0  The    Cry   for    Justice 

With  bars  they  blur  the  gracious  moon, 

And  blind  the  goodly  sun: 
And  they  do  well  to  hide  their  Hell, 

For  in  it  things  are  done 
That  Son  of  God  nor  son  of  Man 

Ever  should  look  upon! 

The  vilest  deeds  like  poison  weeds 

Bloom  well  in  prison-air: 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 

That  wastes  and  withers  there : 
Pale  Anguish  keeps  the  heavy  gate. 

And  the  Warder  is  Despair. 

For  they  starve  the  little  frightened  child 

Till  it  weeps  both  night  and  day: 
And  they  scourge  the  weak,  and  flog  the  fool, 

And  gibe  the  old  and  grey. 
And  some  grow  mad,  and  all  grow  bad. 

And  none  a  word  may  say. 


(From  "Utopia") 

By  Sib  Thomas  More 

ae  of  the  great  classic  Utopias,  written  by  the  English  statesman, 
1478-1535;   executed  upon  Tower  Hill,  for  opposing 
the  will  of  King  Henry  VIII) 

N  this  pojTite,  not  you  onlye,  but  also  the  most  part 

of  the  world,  be  hke  evyll  scholemaisters,  which  be 

idyer  to  beate,  than  to  teache,  their  scholers.      For 

3at  and  horrible  punishmentes  be  appointed  for  theves, 


The    Outcast  161 

whereas  much  rather  provision  should  have  ben  made, 
that  there  were  some  meanes,  whereby  they  myght  get 
their  hvyng,  so  that  no  man  shoulde  be  dryven  to  this 
extreme  necessitie,  firste  to  steale,  and  then  to  dye. 


lilt  '^Tutn  of  ilt  ©alancf* 

By  Bhand  Whitlock 

(American  novelist  and  reformer,  born  1869;  for  many  years 
mayor  of  Toledo,  Ohio,  and  now  Minister  to  Belgium.  The  present 
novel  is  the  Hfe-story  of  Archie  Koerner,  a  boy  of  the  tenements, 
who  is  driven  to  crime  by  the  evil  forces  of  society) 

*  *    A  LL  ready,  Archie." 

•'*-  Jimmy  Ball  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He 
glanced  toward  the  open  grated  door,  thence  across  the 
flagging  to  the  other  door,  and  tried  to  take  a  step. 
Out  there  he  could  see  one  or  two  faces  thrust  forward 
suddenly;  they  peered  in,  then  hastily  withdrew.  He 
tried  again  to  take  a  step,  but  one  leg  had  gone  to  sleep, 
it  prickled,  and  as  he  bore  his  weight  upon  it,  it  seemed 
to  swell  suddenly  to  elephantine  proportions.  And  he 
seemed  to  have  no  knees  at  all;  if  he  stood  up  he  would 
collapse.     How  was  he  ever  to  walk  that  distance? 

"Here!"  said  Ball.  "Get  on  that  other  side  of  him. 
Warden." 

Then  they  started.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Hoerr,  waiting 
by  the  door,  had  begun  to  read  something  in  a  strange, 
unnatural  voice,  out  of  a  little  red  book  he  held  at  his 
breast  in  both  his  hands. 


■*  Copyright,  1907.     Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  Bobbs-Merrill 
Co. 

11 


'63  The    Cry   for    Justice 

"Good-by,  Archie!"  they  called  from  behind,  and  he 
urned,  swayed  a  little,  and  looked  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"Good-by,  boys,"  he  said.  He  had  a  glimpse  of  their 
aces;  they  looked  gray  and  ugly,  worse  even  than  they 
lad  that  evening — or  was  it  that  evening  when  with 
udden  fear  he  had  seen  them  crouching  there  behind 
lim? 

Perhaps  just  at  the  last  minute  the  governor  would 
hange  his  mind.  They  were  walking  the  long  way 
o  the  door,  six  yards  off.  The  flagging  was  cold  to  his 
)are  feet;  his  slit  trouser-legs  flapped  miserably,  reveahng 
lis  white  calves.  Walking  had  suddenly  become  laborious ; 
le  had  to  lift  each  leg  separately  and  manage  it;  he 
talked  much  as  that  man  in  the  rear  rank  of  Company  21 
talked.  He  would  have  liked  to  stop  and  rest  an  instant, 
)ut  Ball  and  the  warden  walked  beside  him,  urged  him 
esistlessly  along,  each  gripping  him  at  the  wrist  and 
tpper  arm. 

In  the  room  outside,  Archie  recognized  the  reporters 
tanding  in  the  sawdust.  What  they  were  to  write  that 
light  would  be  in  the  newspapers  the  next  morning,  but 
le  would  not  read  it.  He  heard  Beck  lock  the  door  of 
he  death  chamber,  locking  it  hm-riedly,  so  that  he  could 
)e  in  time  to  look  on.  Archie  had  no  friend  in  the  group 
if  men  that  waited  in  silence,  glancing  curiously  at  him, 
heir  faces  white  as  the  whitewashed  wall.  The  doctors 
leld  their  watches  in  their  hands.  And  there  before 
dm  was  the  chair,  its  oil-cloth  cover  now  removed,  its 
ane  bottom  exposed.  But  he  would  have  to  step  up  on 
he  little  platform  to  get  to  it. 

"No — ^yes,  there  you  are,  Archie,  my  boy!"  whispered 
Jail.     "There!" 

He  was  in  it,  at  last.     He  leaned  back;    then,  as  his 


The    Outcast  163 

back  touched  the  back  of  the  chair,  he  started  violently. 
But  there  were  hands  on  his  shoulders  pressing  him  down, 
until  he  could  feel  his  back  touch  the  chair  from  his 
shoulders  down  to  the  very  end  of  his  spine.  Some 
one  had  seized  his  legs,  turned  back  the  slit  trousers  from 
his  calves. 

"Be  quick!"  he  heard  the  warden  say  in  a  scared  voice. 
He  was  at  his  right  where  the  switch  and  the  indicator 
were. 

There  were  hands,  too,  at  his  head,  at  his  arms — hands 
all  over  him.  He  took  one  last  look.  Had  the  governor — ? 
Then  the  leather  mask  was  strapped  over  his  eyes  and  it 
was  dark.  He  could  only  feel  and  hear  now — feel  the 
cold  metal  on  his  legs,  feel  the  moist  sponge  on  the  top 
of  his  head  where  the  barber  had  shaved  him,  feel  the 
leather  straps  binding  his  legs  and  arms  to  the  legs  and 
the  arms  of  the  chair,  binding  them  tightly,  so  that  they 
gave  him  pain,  and  he  could  not  move.  Helpless  he  lay 
there,  and  waited.  He  heard  the  loud  ticking  of  a  watch; 
then  on  the  other  side  of  him  the  loud  ticking  of  another 
watch;  fingers  were  at  his  wrists.  There  was  no  sound 
but  the  mumble  of  Mr.  Hoerr's  voice.  Then  some  one 
said: 

"All  ready." 

He  waited  a  second,  or  an  age,  then,  suddenly,  it 
seemed  as  if  he  must  leap  from  the  chair,  his  body  was 
swelling  to  some  monstrous,  impossible,  unhuman  shape; 
his  muscles  were  stretched,  millions  of  hot  and  dreadful 
needles  were  piercing  and  pricking  him,  a  stupendous 
roaring  was  in  his  ears,  then  a  million  colors,  colors  he 
had  never  seen  or  imagined  before,  colors  beyond  the 
range  of  the  spectra,  new,  undiscovered,  summoned  by 
some  mysterious  agency  from   distant   corners   of   the 


164-  The    Cry   for    Justice 

universe,  played  before  his  eyes.  Suddenly  they  were 
shattered  by  a  terrific  explosion  in  his  brain — then 
darkness. 

But  no,  there  was  still  sensation;  a  dull  purple  color 
slowly  spread  before  him,  gradually  grew  lighter,  expanded, 
and  with  a  mighty  pain  he  struggled,  groping  his  way  in 
torture  and  torment  over  fearful  obstacles  from  some  far 
distance,  remote  as  black  stars  in  the  cold  abyss  of  the 
imiverse;  he  struggled  back  to  life — then  an  appalling 
confusion,  a  grasp  at  consciousness;  he  heard  the  ticking 
of  the  two  watches — then,  through  his  brain  there  slowly 
trickled  a  thread  of  thought  that  squirmed  and  glowed 
like  a  white-hot  wire.  .  .  . 

A  faint  groan  escaped  the  pale  lips  below  the  black 
leather  mask,  a  tremor  ran  through  the  form  in  the  chair, 
then  it  relaxed  and  was  still. 

"It's  all  over."  The  doctor,  lifting  his  fingers  from 
Archie's  wrist,  tried  to  smile,  and  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  face  with  a  handkerchief. 

Some  one  flung  up  a  window,  and  a  draught  of  cool 
air  sucked  through  the  room.  On  the  draught  was  borne 
from  the  death-chamber  the  stale  odor  of  Russian  ciga- 
rettes. And  then  a  demoniacal  roar  shook  the  cell- 
house.    The  convicts  had  been  awake. 


The    Outcast  165 

%^t  ^tMtz-€mtt  lOltpotttt 

{From  "Midstream") 

\ 
By  Will  Levington  Comfort        (\ 

(American  novelist  and  war-correspondent,  bom  1878) 

WHEN  I  think  of  prisons;'  of  the  men  who  send 
other  men  there;  of  chairs  of  death  and  hangings, 
and  of  all  that  bring  these  things  about — it  comes  to  me 
that  the  City  is  organized  hell;  that  there  is  no  end  to 
our  cruelty  and  stupidity.  I  bought  from  door  to  door 
in  city  streets  the  stuff  that  makes  murder;  I  sat  in  the 
forenoon  under  the  corrective  forces,  which  were  quite 
as  bUndly  stupid  and  cruel. 

The  women  I  passed  in  the  night,  appeared  often  in 
the  morning.  I  talked  to  them  in  the  nights,  and  heard 
them  weep  in  the  days;  I  saw  them  in  the  nights  with 
the  men  who  judged  them  in  the  days.  Out  of  all  that 
evil,  there  was  no  voice;  out  of  all  the  corrective  force 
there  was  no  voice.  The  City  covered  us  all.  I  was 
one  and  the  other.  The  women  thought  themselves 
beasts;  the  men  thought  themselves  men — and,  voiceless 
between  them,  the  City  stood. 

The  most  tragic  sentence  I  ever  heard,  was  from  the 
lips  of  one  of  these  women.  ...  I  talked  with  her 
through  the  night.  She  called  it  her  work;  she  had  an 
ideal  about  her  work.  Every  turning  in^her  life  had 
been  man-directed.  She  confessed  that  she  had  begun 
with  an  unabatable  passion;  that  men  had  found  her 
sensuousness  very  attractive  when  it  was  fresh.  She  had 
preserved  a  certain  sweetness;  through  such  stresses  that 
the  upper  world  would  never  credit.  Thousands  of  men 
had  come  to  her;  all  perversions,  all  obsessions,  all  mad- 


166  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Qess,  and  drunkenness,  to  her  alone  in  this  little  room. 
3he  told  of  nights  when  twenty  came.  Yet  there  was 
something  inextinguishable  about  her — something  patient 
and  optimistic.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  it  was  hke  a  little 
^rl  speaking: 

"/  wake  up  in  the  morning,  and  find  a  man  beside  me. 
I  am  always  frightened,  even  yet, — until  I  remember.  I 
'■emember  who  I  am  and  what  I  am.  .  .  .  Then  I  try  to 
'Mnk  what  he  is  like — what  his  companions  called  him — 
'juhat  he  said  to  me.  I  try  to  remember  how  he  looked — 
because  you  know  in  the  morning,  his  face  is  always  turned 
iway." 

Does  it  help  you  to  see  that  we  are  all  one?  .  .  .  Yet 
[  couldn't  have  seen  then,  trained  by  men  and  the  City. 
[  belonged  to  the  ranks  of  the  corrective  forces  in  the 
syes  of  the  City — and  she,  to  the  destructive.  .  .  .  She 
srould  have  gone  to  the  pen,  I  sitting  opposite  waiting 
"or  something  more  important  to  make  a  news  bulletin. 

.  .  From  the  City's  point  of  view,  I  was  at  large,  safe 
md  sane.  .  .  . 

The  extreme  seriousness  with  which  men  regard  them- 
selves as  municipal  correctives — as  soldiers,  lovers, 
nonopolists — has  risen  for  me  into  one  of  the  most 
•emarkable  facts  of  life. 


By  Paul  Hanna 

(Contemporary  American  poet) 

HTHEY  got  y',  kid:   they  got  y' — ^just  like  I  said  they 
-*•      would. 

You  tried  to  walk  the  narrow  path. 

You  tried,  and  got  an  awful  laugh; 
*Lnd  laughs  are  all  y'  did  get,  kid — ^they  got  y'  good! 


THE   ■\A'HITE   SLAVE 

ABASTENIA    ST.  LEGER   EBERLE 

{American  sculptor,  born  1878) 


The    Outcast  167 

They  never  knew  the  little  kid^ — the  kid  I  used  to  know; 

The  little  bare-legged  girl  back  home, 

The  little  kid  that  played  alone — 
They  don't  know  half  the  things  I  know,  kid,  ain't  it  so? 

They  got  y',  kid,  they  got  y' — ^you  know  they  got  y'  right; 

They  waited  till  they  saw  y'  limp, 

Then  introduced  y'  to  the  pimp — 
Ah,  you  were  down  then,  kid,  and  couldn't  fight! 

I  guess  y'  know  what  some  don't  know,  and  others  know 
damn  well — 

That  sweatshops  don't  grow  angels'  wings, 

That  workin'  girls  is  easy  things. 
And  poverty's  the  straightest  road  t'  Hell! 


<€^t  "Ca&et" 

{From  "  The  House  of  Bondage  ")        . 
By  Reginald  Wright  Kauffman      \ 
(See  page  53) 

WHEREVER  there  is  squalor  seeking  ease,  he  is 
there.  Wherever  there  is  distress  crying  for  suc- 
cor, discontent  complaining  for  relief,  weariness  sighing 
for  rest,  there  is  this  missionary,  offering  the  quack  sal- 
vation of  his  temporal  church.  He  knows  and  takes 
subtle  advantage  of  the  Jewish  sisters  sent  to  work  for 
the  education  of  Jewish  brothers;  the  Irish,  the  Germans, 
the  Russians,  and  the  Syrians  ground  in  one  or  another 
economic  mill;  the  restless  neurotic  native  daughters 
untrained  for  work  and  spoiled  for  play.     He  is  at  the 


168  The    Cry   for    Justice 

door  of  the  factory  when  it  releases  its  white-faced  women 
for  a  breath  of  night  air;  he  is  at  the  cheap  lunch-room 
where  the  stenographers  bolt  unwholesome  noonday  food 
handed  about  by  underpaid  waitresses;  he  lurks  around 
the  corner  for  the  servant  and  the  shop-clerk.  He 
remembers  that  these  are  girls  too  tired  to  do  household 
work  in  their  evenings,  too  untaught  to  find  continued 
solace  in  books;  that  they  must  go  out,  that  they  must 
move  about;  and  so  he  passes  his  own  nights  at  the 
restaurants  and  theaters,  the  moving-picture  shows,  the 
dancing  academies,  the  dance-halls.  He  may  go  into 
those  stifling  rooms  where  immigrants,  loiig  before  they 
learn  to  make  a  half-complete  sentence  of  what  they  call 
the  American  language,  learn  what  they  are  told  are 
American  dances:  the  whirling  "spiel"  with  blowing 
skirts,  the  "half-time  waltz"  with  jerking  hips.  He  may 
frequent  the  more  sophisticated  forms  of  these  places, 
may  even  be  seen  in  the  more  expensive  cafes,  or  may 
journey  into  the  provinces.  But  he  scents  poverty  from 
afar. 


Wit  ^tie0tt&&  0t  l^umanttp 

{From  "A  History  of  European  Morals") 
By  William  E.  H.  Lecky 

(English  historian  and  philosopher,   1838-1903.     The  following 
much  quoted  passage  may  be  said  to  represent  the  Victorian 
view  of  its  subject) 

T  TNDER  these  circumstances,  there  has  arisen  in 
^-^  society  a  figure  which  is  certainly  the  most  mourn- 
ful, and  in  some  respects  the  most  awful,  upon  which  the 
eye  of  the  moralist  can  dwell.     That  unhappy  being  whose 


The    Outcast  169 

very  name  is  a  shame  to  speak;  who  counterfeits  with  a 
cold  heart  the  transports  of  affection,  and  submits  herself 
as  the  passive  instrument  of  lust;  who  is  scorned  and 
insulted  as  the  vilest  of  her  sex,  and  doomed,  for  the 
most  part,  to  disease  and  abject  wretchedness  and  an 
early  death,  appears  in  every  age  as  the  perpetual  symbol 
of  the  degradation  and  sinfulness  of  man.  Herself  the 
supreme  type  of  vice,  she  is  ultimately  the  most  efHcient 
guardian  of  virtue.  But  for  her,  the  imchallenged  purity 
of  countless  happy  homes  would  be  polluted,  and  not  a 
few  who,  in  the  pride  of  their  imtempted  chastity,  think 
of  her  with  an  indignant  shudder,  would  have  known  the 
agony  of  remorse  and  despair.  On  that  one  degraded  and 
ignoble  form  are  concentrated  the  passions  that  might 
have  filled  the  world  with  shame.  She  remains,  while 
creeds  and  civilizations  rise  and  fall,  the  eternal  priestess 
of  humanity,  blasted  for  the  sins  of  the  people. 


By  Mary  Craig  Sinclair 
(Contemporary  American  writer) 

LAST  night  I  woke,  and  in  my  tranquil  bed 
I  lay,  and  thanked  my  God  with  fervent  prayer 
That  I  had  food  and  warmth,  a  cosy  chair 
Beside  a  jolly  fire,  and  roses  red 
To  give  my  room  a  touch  of  light  and  grace. 
And  I  thanked  God,  oh  thanked  Him!  that  my  face 
Was  beautiful,  that  it  was  fair  to  men: 
I  thought  awhile,  then  thanked  my  God  again. 


170  The    Cry   for    Justice 

For  yesterday,  on  Broadway  I  had  walked, 
And  I  had  stopped  to  watch  them  as  they  stalked 
Then-  prey;  and  I  was  glad  I  had  no  sons 
To  look  with  me  upon  those  woeful  ones — 
Paint  on  their  lips,  and  from  a  corpse  their  hair, 
And  eyes  of  simulated  lust,  astare ! 


%^t  QMoman  of  i^t  &tr«ts< 

By  Robert  Blatchfoed 
(See  pages  66,  121) 

CONSIDER  now  the  outcast  Jezebel  of  the  London 
pavement.  Fierce  and  cunning,  and  false  and  vile. 
Ghastly  of  visage  under  her  paint  and  grease.  A  creature 
debased  below  the  level  of  the  brute,  with  the  hate  of  a 
devil  in  her  soul  and  the  fire  of  hell  in  her  eyes.  Lewd 
of  gestiu'e,  strident  of  voice,  wanton  of  gaze,  using  lan- 
guage so  foul  as  to  shock  the  pot-house  ruffian,  and  laugh- 
ter whose  sound  makes  the  blood  run  cold.  A  dreadful 
spectre,  shameless,  heartless,  reckless,  and  horrible.  A 
creature  whose  touch  is  contamination,  whose  words 
burn  like  a  flame,  whose  leers  and  ogles  make  the  soul 
sick.  A  creature  living  in  drunkenness  and  filth.  A 
moral  blight.  A  beast  of  prey  who  has  cast  down  many 
wounded,  whose  victims  fill  the  lunatic  ward  and  the 
morgue;  a  thief,  a  liar,  a  hopeless,  lost,  degraded  wretch, 
of  whom  it  has  been  well  said,  "Her  feet  take  hold  of 
hell;  her  house  is  the  way  to  the  grave,  going  down 
to  the  chamber  of  death." 


The    Outcast  171 

3n  tit  fetrann 

By  Ahthue  Symons 
(English  poet  and  critic,  bom  1865) 

WITH  eyes  and  hands  and  voice  convulsively 
She  craves  the  bestial  wages.     In  her  face 
What  now  is  left  of  woman?  whose  lost  place 
Is  filled  with  greed's  last  eating  agony. 
She  lives  to  be  rejected  and  abhorred, 
Like  a  dread  thing  forgotten.     One  by  one 
She  hails  the  passers,  whispers  blindly;  none 
Heeds  now  the  voice  that  had  not  once  implored 
Those  alms  in  vain.     The  hour  has  struck  for  her, 
And  now  damnation  is  scarce  possible 
Here  on  the  earth;  it  waits  for  her  in  hell. 
God!  to  be  spurned  of  the  last  wayfarer 
That  haunts  a  dark  street  after  midnight!    Now 
Shame's  last  disgrace  is  hot  upon  her  brow. 


By  Thomas  Hood 
(See  page  59) 

ONE  more  Unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate. 
Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 


172  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 

Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully. 

Gently  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her — 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  imdutiful: 
Past  all  dishonor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers. 

One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 

Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb. 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Where  was  her  home? 


The    Outcast  173 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 


Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun! 
0!  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 


Sisterly,  brotherly. 
Fatherly,  motherly. 

Feelings  had  changed; 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 


Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river. 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement. 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 


n/f.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 

Swift  to  be  hurl'd — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world! 


In  she  plunged  boldly. 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran; 
Over  the  brink  of  it, — 
Picture  it,  think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 

Then,  if  you  can! 


Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 


Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly. 
Smooth  arid  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them. 

Staring  so  bhndly! 


The    Outcast  176 

Dreadfully  staring 

Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  by  contximely, 
Cold  inhumanity. 
Burning  insanity. 

Into  her  rest. 
— Cross  her  hands  humbly 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast! 

Owning  her  weakness. 
Her  evil  behavior. 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 


BOOK  IV 

Out  of  the  T>epths 


The  protest  of  the  soul  of  man  confronted  with  injustice  and 
groping  for  a  remedy. 


By  Ebenezer  Elliott 

(One  of  the  leaders  of  the  Chartist  movement  in  England,  1781- 

1849;  known  as  the  "Poet  of  the  People,"  and  by  hia  enemies 

as  the  "Corn-law  Rhymer") 

"\'\ /"HEN  wilt  thou  save  the  people? 

*  *     0  God  of  mercy!  when? 
Not  kings  and  lords,  but  nations! 

Not  thrones  and  crowns,  but  men! 
Flowers  of  thy  heart,  0  God,  are  they! 
Let  them  not  pass,  like  weeds,  away! 
Their  heritage  a  simless  day! 

God  save  the  people! 

Shall  crime  bring  crime  for  ever, 

Strength  aiding  still  the  strong? 
Is  it  thy  will,  0  Father! 

That  man  shall  toil  for  wrong? 
"No!"  say  thy  mountains;   "No!"  thy  skies; 
"Man's  clouded  sim  shall  brightly  rise, 
And  songs  be  heard  instead  of  sighs." 
God  save  the  people! 

When  wilt  thou  save  the  people? 

0  God  of  mercy!  when? 
The  people,  Lord!  the  people! 

Not  thrones  and  crowns,  but  men! 
God  save  the  people!  thine  they  are; 
Thy  children,  as  thy  angels  fair; 
Save  them  from  bondage  and  despair! 
God  save  the  people! 
(179) 


180  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Si  !&gmn 

Bt  GrLBEET  K.  Chesteeton 
(English  essayist  aad  poet,  bom  1874) 

/^  GOD  of  earth  and  altar 
^-^    Bow  down  and  hear  our  cry, 
Our  earthly  rulers  falter, 

Our  people  drift  and  die; 
The  walls  of  gold  entomb  us. 

The  swords  of  scorn  divide, 
Take  not  Thy  thunder  from  us, 

But  take  away  our  pride. 

From  all  that  terror  teaches. 

From  hes  of  tongue  and  pen, 
From  all  the  easy  speeches 

That  comfort  cruel  men. 
From  sale  and  profanation 

Of  honor  and  the  sword, 
From  sleep  and  from  damnation. 

Deliver  us,  good  Lord. 

Tie  in  a  living  tether 

The  priest  and  prince  and  thrall, 
Bind  all  our  lives  together, 

Smite  us  and  save  us  all; 
In  ire  and  exultation 

Aflame  with  faith,  and  free, 
Lift  up  a  hving  nation, 

A  single  sword  to  Thee. 


Out  of  the  Depths  181 

By  William  Shakespeare 

(One  of  the  series  of  sonnets  in  which  the  English  dramatist,  1564- 
1616,  voiced  his  inmost  soul) 

TIRED  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry — 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  bom, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity. 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 

And  gilded  honor  shamefully  misplaced. 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 

And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled. 

And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly,  doctor-hke,  controUing  skill. 

And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  Good  attending  captain  111: — 

Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  Love  alone. 


mxiiXtn  in  Eontion.  feitpt^mlier.  1802 

By  William  Wordswohth 

(One  of  the  great  sonnets  of  England's  poet  of  nature;   1770-1850. 
Poet  laureate  in  1843) 

O  FRIEND !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 
For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest 
To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 


18S  The    Cry   for    Justice 

For  show;  mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook, 
Or  groom! — We  must  run  ghttering  hke  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest; 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best; 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Dehghts  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
This  is  idolatry;  and  these  we  adore; 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more: 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 


%lt  Mutate  to  "  lLt0  9^i&ttafi\t&  " 

By  Victor  Hugo 

(The  poet  and  htrmanitarian  of  France,  1802-1885,  has  in  this 

passage  set  forth  the  purpose  of  one  of  the  half-dozen 

greatest  novels  of  the  world) 

OO  long  as  there  shall  exist,  by  reason  of  law  and  cus- 
^  tom,  a  social  condemnation,  which,  in  the  face  of 
civilization,  artificially  creates  hells  on  earth,  and  com- 
plicates a  destiny  that  is  divine,  with  human  fatality; 
so  long  as  the  threp  problems  of  the  age — the  degradation 
of  man  by  poverty,  the  ruin  of  women  by  starvation,  and 
the  dwarfing  of  childhood  by  physical  and  spiritual  night 
— are  not  solved;  so  long  as,  in  certain  regions,  social 
asphyxia  shall  be  possible;  in  other  words,  and  from  a 
yet  more  extended  point  of  view,  so  long  as  ignorance 
and  misery  remain  on  earth,  books  like  this  cannot  be 
useless. 


Out  of  the  Depths  183 

Bounti 

By  Mat  Beals 
(Contemporary  American  writer  and  lecturer) 

COMETIMES  I  feel  the  tide  of  life  in  me 
^     Flood  upward,  high  and  higher,  till  I  stand 
Tiptoe,  aflame  with  energy,  a  god. 
Young,  virile,  glorying  in  my  youth  and  power. 
But  not  for  long;  the  grip  of  poverty 
Seizes  me,  sets  my  daily  task;  the  eyes 
Of  those  I  love,  looking  to  me  for  bread 
Pierce  me  like  eagles'  beaks  through  very  love. 

I  am  Prometheus  bound;  these  cares  and  fears 
Tear  at  my  vitals,  leave  me  broken,  spent. 

And  unavaiUngly  'tis  spent,  my  life. 

My  wondrous  life,  so  pregnant  with  rich  powers. 

That  stuff  in  me  from  which  heroic  deeds, 

Great  thoughts  and  noble  poems  might  be  made 

Is  wrenched  from  me,  is  coined  in  wealth,  and  spent 

By  others;  save  that  I  and  mine  receive 

A  mere  existence,  bare  of  hope  and  joy, 

Bare  even  of  comfort. 

Comrades,  stretched  and  bound 
In  agony  on  labor's  rock,  we  Uve — 
And  die — ^to  fatten  vultures! 


184  The    Cry   for    Justice 

^Q  a  JFoil'D  (Etttop^an  Etbolutfonaiw 

By  Walt  Whitman 

(Americas  most  original  and  creative  poet,  1819-1892;  printer 
and  journalist,  during  the  war  an  army  nurse,  and  later  a  government 
clerk,  discharged  for  pubUshing  what  his  superiors  considered  an 
"indecent"  book) 

NOT  songs  of  loyalty  alone  are  these, 
But  songs  of  insurrection  also; 
For  I  am  the  sworn  poet  of  every  dauntless  rebel,  the 

world  over, 
And  he  going  with  me  leaves  peace  and  routine  behind 

him, 
And  stakes  his  life,  to  be  lost  at  any  moment.  .  .  . 

When  liberty  goes  out  of  a  place,  it  is  not  the  first  to  go, 
nor  the  second  or  third  to  go, 

It  waits  for  all  the  rest  to  go — it  is  the  last. 

When  there  are  no  more  memories  of  martyrs  and  heroes. 

And  when  all  life,  and  all  the  souls  of  men  and  women  are 
discharged  from  any  part  of  the  earth. 

Then  only  shall  liberty,  or  the  idea  of  liberty,  be  dis- 
charged from  that  part  of  the  earth. 

And  the  infidel  come  into  full  possession. 


Out  of  the  Depths  185 

C{)ant0  Communal 

By  Horace  Tkaubei, 

(American  poet  and  editor,  born  1858;    disciple  and  biographer  of 
Walt  Wkitman) 

YOU  will  long  resist  me.  You  will  deceive  yourself 
with  initial  victories.  You  will  find  me  weak. 
You  will  count  me  only  one  against  a  million.  You 
will  see  the  world  seem  to  go  on  just  as  it  is.  One  day 
confirming  another.  Presidents  succeeding  Presidents  in 
unvarying  mediocrity.  Millionaires  dead  reborn  in  mil- 
lionaire children.  Starvation  handing  starvation  on. 
The  people  innocently  played  against  the  people. 
Demand  and  supply  cohabited  for  the  production  of  a 
bhnd  progeny.  The  landlord  suborning  the  land.  The 
moneylord  suborning  money.  The  storelord  suborning 
production.  All  will  seem  to  go  on  just  as  it  is.  And 
you  who  resist  me  will  be  fooled.  You  will  say  the  uni- 
verse is  against  me.  You  will  say  I  am  cursed.  Or 
you  will  in  your  tenderer  moments  ask:  What's  the  use? 
But  all  this  time  I  will  be  keeping  on.  Doing  nothing 
tmusual.  Only  keeping  on.  Asleep  or  awake,  keeping  on. 
Compelled  to  say  the  say  of  justice  all  by  myself.  Will- 
ing to  wait  imtil  you  are  shaken  up  and  convinced. 
Until  you  will  say  it  to  yourself.  And  say  it  to  yourself 
you  will. 

There  are  things  ahead  that  will  stir  you  out  of  your 
indifference  or  lethargy  or  doubt.  Give  you  an  im- 
mortal awakening.  So  you  will  never  sleep  again.  I  do 
not  know  just  what  it  will  be.  But  something.  And 
you  ■wall  know  it. when  it  comes.  And  then  you  will 
understand  why  I  am  calm.     Why  I  am  not  worried  by 


186  The    Cxy   for    Justice 

delay.  Why  I  am  not  defeated  by  postponements.  Why 
all  the  big  things  that  seem  to  be  against  me  do  not 
seem  to  worry  the  one  little  thing  that  is  for  me.  Why 
my  faith  maintains  itself  against  your  property.  Why 
my  soul  maintains  itself  against  injustice.  Why  I  am 
willing  to  say  words  that  are  thought  personally  unkind 
for  the  sake  of  a  result  that  is  universally  sweet.  Why 
I  look  in  your  face  and  see  you  long  before  you  are  able 
to  see  yourself.  Why  you  with  all  your  fortified  rights 
doubt  and  despair.  Why  I  without  any  right  at  all  am 
cheerful  and  confident.  Why  you  tremble  when  one 
little  man  with  one  little  voice  asks  you  a  question. 
Why  I  do  not  tremble  with  all  the  states  and  churches 
and  political  economies  at  my  heels. 


%^t^t  ^opulatipniee 

{From  "Towards  Democracy") 

By  Edward  Carpenter 

(English  poet  and  philosopher,  born  1844;  disciple  of  Walt  Whitman) 

"T^HESE  populations— 
-'■      So  puny,  white-faced,  machine-made, 

Turned  out  by  factories,  out  of  offices,  out  of  drawing- 
rooms,  by  thousands  all  alike — 

Huddled,  stitched  up,  in  clothes,  fearing  a  chill,  a  drop 
of  rain,  looking  timidly  at  the  sea  and  sky  as  at  strange 
monsters,  or  running  back  so  quick  to  their  suburban 
nms  and  burrows. 

Dapper,  libidinous,  cute,  with  washed-out  small  eyes — 

What  are  these? 

Are  they  men  and  women? 


Out  of  the  Depths  187 

Each  denying  himself,  hiding  himself? 

Are  they  men  and  women? 

So  timorous,  like  hares — a  breath  of  propriety  or  cus- 
tom, a  draught  of  wind,  the  mere  threat  of  pain  or  of 
danger? 

0  for  a  breath  of  the  sea  and  the  great  mountains! 

A  bronzed  hardy  live  man  walking  his  way  through  it 
all; 

Thousands  of  men  companioning  the  waves  and  the 
storms,  splendid  in  health,  naked-breasted,  catching  the 
lion  with  their  hands; 

A  thousand  women  swift-footed  and  free — owners  of 
themselves,  forgetful  of  themselves,  in  all  their  actions — 
full  of  joy  and  laughter  and  action; 

Garbed  not  so  differently  from  the  men,  joining  with 
them  in  their  games  and  sports,  sharing  also  their  labors; 

Free  to  hold  their  own,  to  grant  or  withhold  their  love, 
the  same  as  the  men: 

Strong,  well-equipped  in  muscle  and  skill,  clear  of 
finesse  and  affectation — 

(The  men,  too,  clear  of  much  brutality  and  conceit) — 

Comrades  together,  equal  in  intelligence  and  adventure. 

Trusting  without  concealment,  loving  without  shame 
but  with  discrimination  and  continence  towards  a  per- 
fect passion. 

0  for  a  breath  of  the  sea! 

The  necessity  and  directness  of  the  great  elements 
themselves ! 

Swimming  the  rivers,  braving  the  sun,  the  cold,  taming 
the  animals  and  the  earth,  conquering  the  air  with  wings, 
and  each  other  with  love — 

The  true,  the  hiunan  society! 


188  The    Cry   for    Justice 

%^z  feifiip  ot  l^umanit? 

{From  "Gloucester  Moors") 

By  William  Vaughn  Moody 

(American  poet  and  dramatist,  1869-1910) 

GOD,  dear  God!    Does  she  know  her  port, 
Though  she  goes  so  far  about? 
Or  bhnd  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out? 
I  watched  when  her  captains  passed: 

She  were  better  captainless. 
Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 
But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast. 
And  some  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caught 

Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold, — 
Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 

And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 
Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see; 

But  they  said,  "Thou  art  not  of  us!" 
I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 
And  cried,  "Give  help!"     But  they  said,  "Let  be: 

Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 
The  alder-clump  where  the  brook  comes  through 

Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 
To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street. 

With  its  swelter  and  its  sin! 
Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet, 
And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat? 

And  when  will  his  wage  come  in? 


Out  of  the  Depths  189 

By  James  Russell  Lowell 

(American  scholar  and  poet,  1819-1891,  author  of  many  impas- 
sioned poems  of  human  freedom.  An  ardent  anti-slavery  advocate, 
it  was  said  during  the  Civil  War  that  his  poetry  was  worth  an  army 
corps  to  the  Union) 

MEN!  whose  boast  it  is  that  ye 
Come  of  fathers  brave  and  free, 
If  there  breathe  on  earth  a  slave, 
Are  ye  truly  free  and  brave? 
If  ye  do  not  feel  the  chain 
When  it  works  a  brother's  pain. 
Are  ye  not  base  slaves  indeed, 
Slaves  unworthy  to  be  freed? 

Is  true  Freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  our  own  dear  sake, 
And,  with  leathern  hearts,  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a  debt  ? 
No!     True  Freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear, 
And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free! 

They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 

For  the  fallen  and  the  weak; 

They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 

Hatred,  scofBng  and  abuse. 

Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 

From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think; 

They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 

In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 


190  The    Cry   for    Justice 

(Kltgp  aflltitttn  in  a  Couttttj?  C5urc|)?at& 

By  Thomas  Gray 

(English  poet  and  scholar,  1716-1771 ;  Cambridge  professor.  It  is 
said  that  Major  Wolfe,  while  sitting  in  a,  row-boat  on  his  way  to 
the  night  attack  upon  Quebec,  remarked  that  he  would  rather  have 
been  the  author  of  this  poem  than  the  taker  of  the  city) 

/^FT  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
^-^    Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  Poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth,  e'er  gave 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour: — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave.  .  .  . 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  flre; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre; 


Out   of  the  Depths  191 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast. 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circmnscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  Hfe 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 


19S  The    Cry   for    Justice 

'arSc  EanH  mutation 

Bt  Cardinal  Manning 
(English  prelate  of  the  Cathoho  Church,  1808-1892) 

I  "HE  land  question  means  hunger,  thirst,  nakedness, 
-^  notice  to  quit,  labor  spent  in  vain,  the  toil  of  years 
seized  upon,  the  breaking  up  of  homes;  the  misery,  sick- 
ness, deaths  of  parents,  children,  wives;  the  despair  and 
wildness  which  springs  up  in  the  hearts  of  the  poor, 
when  legal  force,  like  a  sharp  harrow,  goes  over  the  most 
sensitive  and  vital  rights  of  mankind.  All  this  is  con- 
tained in  the  land  question. 


By  Jacob  Fisher 
(Contemporary  American  poet) 

T   MET  her  on  the  Umbrian  Hills, 
■•■     Her  hair  unbound,  her  feet  imshod; 
As  one  whom  secret  glory  fills 
She  walked  alone — ^with  God. 

I  met  her  in  the  city  street; 

Oh,  changed  her  aspect  then! 
With  heavy  eyes  and  weary  feet 

She  walked  alone — with  men. 


Out  of  the  Depths  193 

Pccf ace  to  "  Sl^ajot  IBatliara  " 

By  G.  Bernard  Shaw 

(Irish  dramatist  and  critic,  born  1856;    recognized  as  one  of  the 
world's  most  brilliant  advocates  of  Socialism) 

''  I  ^HE  thoughtless  wickedness  with  which  we  scatter 
-•■  sentences  of  imprisonment,  tortm-e  in  the  sohtary 
cell  and  on  the  plank  bed,  and  flogging,  on  moral  invalids 
and  energetic  rebels,  is  as  nothing  compared  to  the  stupid 
levity  with  which  we  tolerate  poverty  as  if  it  were  either 
a  wholesome  tonic  for  lazy  people  or  else  a  virtue  to  be 
embraced  as  St.  Francis  embraced  it.  If  a  man  is  indo- 
lent, let  him  be  poor.  If  he  is  drunken,  let  him  be  poor. 
If  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  let  him  be  poor.  If  he  is 
addicted  to  the  fine  arts  or  to  pure  science  instead  of  to 
trade  and  finance,  let  him  be  poor.  If  he  chooses  to 
spend  his  urban  eighteen  shillings  a  week  or  his  agricul- 
tural thirteen  shillings  a  week  on  his  beer  and  his  family 
instead  of  saving  it  up  for  his  old  age,  let  him  be  poor. 
Let  nothing  be  done  for  "the  undeserving":  let  him  be 
poor.  Serves  him  right!  Also — somewhat  inconsis- 
tently— blessed  are  the  poor! 

Now  what  does  this  Let  Him  Be  Poor  mean?  It 
means  let  him  be  weak.  Let  him  be  ignorant.  Let  him 
become  a  nucleus  of  disease.  Let  him  be  a  standing 
exhibition  and  example  of  ugliness  and  dirt.  Let  him 
have  rickety  children.  Let  him  be  cheap  and  let  him 
drag  his  fellows  down  to  his  price  by  selling  himself  to  do 
their  work.  Let  his  habitations  turn  our  cities  into  poi- 
sonous congeries  of  slums.  Let  his  daughters  infect  our 
yoimg  men  with  the  diseases  of  the  streets  and  his  sons 
revenge  him  by  turning  the  nation's  manhood  into  scrofula, 

13 


194  The    Cry   for    Justice 

cowardice,  cruelty,  hypocrisy,  political  imbecility,  and  all 
the  other  fruits  of  oppression  and  malnutrition.  Let  the 
undeserving  become  still  less  deserving;  and  let  the 
deserving  lay  up  for  himself,  not  treasures  in  heaven,  but 
horrors  in  hell  upon  earth.  This  being  so,  is  it  really 
wise  to  let  him  be  poor?  Would  he  not  do  ten  times 
less  harm  as  a  prosperous  burglar,  incendiary,  ravisher, 
or  murderer,  to  the  utmost  limits  of  humanity's  compara- 
tively negligible  impulses  in  these  directions?  Suppose 
we  were  to  abolish  all  penalties  for  such  activities,  and 
decide  that  poverty  is  the  one  thing  we  will  not  toler- 
ate— that  every  adult  with  less  than,  say,  £365  a  year, 
shall  be  painlessly  but  inexorably  killed,  and  every 
hungry  half  naked  child  forcibly  fattened  and  clothed, 
would  not  that  be  an  enormous  improvement  on  our 
existing  system,  which  has  already  destroyed  so  many 
civilizations,  and  is  visibly  destroying  ours  in  the  same 
way? 


By  Upton  Sinclair 
(See  pages  43,  143) 

NOW  the  dreadful  winter  was  come  upon  them.  In 
the  forests,  all  sunamer  long,  the  branches  of  the 
trees  do  battle  for  Hght,  and  some  of  them  lose  and  die; 
and  then  come  the  raging  blasts,  and  the  storms  of  snow 
and  hail,  and  strew  the  ground  with  these  weaker  branches. 
Just  so  it  was  in  Packingtown;  the  whole  district  braced 
itself  for  the  struggle  that  was  an  agony,  and  those  whose 
time  was  come  died  off  in  hordes.     All  the  year  round 


Out  of  the  Depths  195 

they  had  been  serving  as  cogs  in  the  great  pacldng- 
machine;  and  now  was  the  time  for  the  renovating  of 
it,  and  the  replacing  of  damaged  parts.  There  came 
pneimionia  and  grippe,  stalking  among  them,  seeking  for 
weakened  constitutions;  there  was  the  annual  harvest 
of  those  whom  tuberculosis  had  been  dragging  down. 
There  came  cruel  cold,  and  biting  winds,  and  blizzards 
of  snow,  all  testing  relentlessly  for  failing  muscles  and 
impoverished  blood.  Sooner  or  later  came  the  day  when 
the  unfit  one  did  not  report  for  work;  and  then,  with 
no  time  lost  in  waiting,  and  no  inquiries  or  regrets,  there 
was  a  chance  for  a  new  hand.  .  .  . 

Home  was  not  a  very  attractive  place — at  least  not 
this  winter.  They  had  only  been  able  to  buy  one  stove, 
and  this  was  a  small  one,  and  proved  not  big  enough  to 
warm  even  the  kitchen  in  the  bitterest  weather.  This 
made  it  hard  for  Teta  Elzbieta  all  day,  and  for  the  chil- 
dren when  they  could  not  get  to  school.  At  night  they 
would  sit  huddled  around  this  stove,  while  they  ate 
their  supper  off  their  laps;  and  then  Jurgis  and  Jonas 
would  smoke  a  pipe,  after  which  they  would  all  crawl 
into  their  beds  to  get  warm,  after  putting  out  the  fire 
to  save  the  coal.  Then  they  would  have  some  frightful 
experiences  with  the  cold.  They  would  sleep  with  all 
their  clothes  on,  including  their  overcoats,  and  put  over 
them  all  the  bedding  and  spare  clothing  they  owned; 
the  children  would  sleep  all  crowded  into  one  bed,  and 
yet  even  so  they  could  not  keep  warm.  The  outside 
ones  would  be  shivering  and  sobbing,  crawling  over  the 
others  and  trying  to  get  down  into  the  center,  and  causing 
a  fight.  This  old  house  with  the  leaky  weather-boards 
was  a  very  different  thing  from  their  cabins  at  home, 
with  great  thick  walls  plastered  inside  and  outside  with 


196  The    Cry   for    Justice 

mud;  and  the  cold  which  came  upon  them  was  a  living 
thing,  a  demon-presence  in  the  room.  They  would  waken 
in  the  midnight  hours,  when  everything  was  black;  per- 
haps they  would  hear  it  yelling  outside,  or  perhaps  there 
would  be  deathlike  stillness — and  that  would  be  worse 
yet.  They  could  feel  the  cold  as  it  crept  in  through 
the  cracks,  reaching  out  for  them  with  its  icy,  death- 
dealing  fingers;  and  they  would  crouch  and  cower,  and 
try  to  hide  from  it,  all  in  vain.  It  would  come,  and  it 
would  come;  a  grisly  thing,  a  spectre  born  in  the  black 
caverns  of  terror;  a  power  primeval,  cosmic,  shadowing 
the  tortures  of  the  lost  souls  flung  out  to  chaos  and  destruc- 
tion. It  was  cruel,  iron-hard;  and  hour  after  hour  they 
would  cringe  in  its  grasp,  alone,  alone.  There  would 
be  no  one  to  hear  them  if  they  cried  out;  there  would 
be  no  help,  no  mercy.  And  so  on  until  morning — when 
they  would  go  out  to  another  day  of  toil,  a  little  weaker, 
a  little  nearer  to  the  time  when  it  would  be  their  turn 
to  be  shaken  from  the  tree. 


•Zllif  S>ali  S)is6t  of  lit  l^unfftp 

By  Li  Hung  Chang 

(A  poem  by  the  Chinese  statesman,  1823-1901 ;  known  as  the 

"Bismarck  of  Asia,"  and  said  to  have  been  the  richest 

man  in  the  world) 

'    I  "WOULD  please  me,  gods,  if  you  would  spare 

^       Mine  eyes  from  all  this  hungry  stare 
That  fills  the  face  and  eyes  of  men 
Who  search  for  food  o'er  hill  and  glen. 


COLD 

EOGEK  BLOCHE  {French  sculptor;  from  the  Luxembourg  Museum) 


Out   of  the  Depths  197 

Their  eyes  are  orbs  of  dullest  fire, 
As  if  the  flame  would  mount  up  higher; 
But  in  the  darkness  of  their  glow 
We  know  the  fuel's  burning  low. 

Such  looks,  0  gods,  are  not  from  thee! 
No,  they're  the  stares  of  misery! 
They  speak  of  hunger's  frightful  hold 
On  Hps  a-dry  and  stomachs  cold. 

"Bread,  bread,"  they  cry,  these  weary  men. 
With  wives  and  children  from  the  glen! 
O,  they  would  toil  the  live-long  day 
But  for  a  meal,  their  lives  to  stay. 

But  where  is  it  in  all  the  land? 
Unless  the  gods  with  gen'rous  hand 
Send  sweetsome  rice  and  strength'ning  corn 
To  these  vast  crowds  to  hunger  born! 


%^t  Eifffit  to  be  Hm 

By  Paul  Lafahgue 

\ 
(A  well-known  Socialist  writer  of  France.    He  and  his  wife,  finding 
themselves  helpless  from  old  age  and  penury,  committed 
suicide  together) 

DOES  any  one  believe  that,  because  the  toilers  of  the 
time  of  the  mediaeval  guilds  worked  five  days  out 
of  seven  in  a  week,  they  lived  upon  air  and  water  only, 
as  the  deluding  political  economists  tell  us?  Go  to! 
They  had  leisure  to  taste  of  earthly  pleasure,  to  cherish 
love,  to  make  and  to  keep  open  house  in  honor  of  the 
great  God,  Leisure.     In  those  days,  that  morose,  h3rpo- 


198  The    Cry   for    Justice 

critically  Protestant  England  was  called  "Merrie  Eng- 
land." Rabelais,  Quevedo,  Cervantes,  the  unknown 
authors  of  the  spicy  novels  of  those  days,  make  our 
mouths  water  with  their  descriptions  of  those  enormous 
feasts,  at  which  the  peoples  of  that  time  regaled  them- 
selves, and  towards  which  "nothing  was  spared."  Jor- 
daens  and  the  Dutch  school  of  painters  have  portrayed 
them  for  us,  in  their  pictures  of  jovial  life.  Noble,  giant 
stomachs,  what  has  become  of  you?  Exalted  spirits,  ye 
who  comprehended  the  whole  of  human  thought,  whither 
are  ye  gone?  We  are  thoroughly  degenerated  and 
dwarfed.  Tubercular  cows,  potatoes,  wine  made  with 
fuchsine,  beer  from  saffron,  and  Prussian  whiskey  in  wise 
conjunction  with  compulsory  labor  have  weakened  our 
bodies  and  dulled  our  intellects.  And  at  the  same  time 
that  mankind  ties  up  its  stomach,  and  the  productivity 
of  the  machine  goes  on  increasing  day  by  day,  the  political 
economists  wish  to  preach  to  us  Malthusian  doctrine,  the 
religion  of  abstinence  and  the  dogma  of  work! 


By  Antipaeos 

(Greek,  First  Century,  A.  D.      The  poet  celebrates  the  invention 
of  the  water-mill  for  grinding  corn) 

'  I  'HE  goddess  has  commanded  the  work  of  the  girls 
■••  to  be  done  by  the  Nymphs;  and  now  these  skip 
lightly  over  the  wheels,  so  that  the  shaken  axles  revolve 
with  the  spokes,  and  pull  around  the  load  of  the  revolving 
stones.  Let  us  live  the  life  of  our  fathers,  and  let  us 
rest  from  work  and  enjoy  the  gifts  that  the  goddess  has 
sent  us! 


Out  of  the  Depths  199 

By  John  Stuart  Mill 
(English  philosopher,  1806-1873) 

T TITHERTO,  it  is  questionable  if  all  the  mechanical     / 

■*■    ■'■  inventions  yet  made  have  lightened  the  day's  toil    / 
of  any  human  being.  \ 


'STfit  Sl^an  mntn  tfif  Stone 

{From  "The  Man  mth  the  Hoe  and  other  Poems") 

By  Edwin  Markham 

(See  page  27) 

\^ /"HEN  I  see  a  workingman  with  mouths  to  feed, 

*  *       Up,  day  after  day,  in  the  dark  before  the  dawn, 
And  coming  home,  night  after  night,  thro'  the  dusk, 
Swinging  forward  like  some  fierce  silent  animal, 
I  see  a  man  doomed  to  roll  a  huge  stone  up  an  endless 

steep. 
He  strains  it  onward  inch  by  stubborn  inch. 
Crouched  always  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock.  .  .  . 
See  where  he  crouches,  twisted,  cramped,  misshapen! 

He  lifts  for  their  life; 

The  veins  knot  and  darken — 

Blood  surges  into  his  face.  .  .  . 

Now  he  loses — now  he  wins — 

Now  he  loses — loses — (God  of  my  soul!) 

He  digs  his  feet  into  the  earth — 

There's  a  movement  of  terrified  effort.  .  .  . 

It  stirs — it  moves ! 


200  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Will  the  huge  stone  break  his  hold 
And  crush  him  as  it  plunges  to  the  Gulf? 

The  silent  struggle  goes  on  aiid  on, 
Like  two  contending  in  a  dream. 


By  Boethius 
(Roman  philosopher,  470-524) 

THOUGH  the  goddess  of  riches  should  bestow  as 
much  as  the  sand  rolled  by  the  wind-tossed  sea,  or 
as  many  as  the  stars  that  shine,  the  human  race  will  not 
cease  to  wail. 


Cfie  aaiolf  at  tSe  SDoor 

By  Charlotte  Perkins  Gilman 
(America's  most  brilliant  woman  poet  and  critic;   born  1860) 

THERE'S  a  haunting  horror  near  us 
That  nothing  drives  away; 
Fierce  lamping  eyes  at  nightfall, 

A  crouching  shade  by  day; 
There's  a  whining  at  the  threshold. 
There's  a  scratching  at  -the  floor. 
To  work!    To  work!     In  Heaven's  name! 
The  wolf  is  at  the  door! 

The  day  was  long,  the  night  was  short, 

The  bed  was  hard  and  cold; 
Still  weary  are  the  little  ones. 

Still  weary  are  the  old. 


Out  of  the  Depths  201 

We  are  weary  in  our  cradles 

From  our  mother's  toil  imtold; 
We  are  born  to  hoarded  weariness 

As  some  to  hoarded  gold. 

We  will  not  rise!    We  will  not  work! 

Nothing  the  day  can  give 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  an  hour  of  sleep; 

Better  to  sleep  than  live! 
What  power  can  stir  these  heavy  limbs? 

What  hope  these  dull  hearts  swell? 
What  fear  more  cold,  what  pain  more  sharp 

Than  the  life  we  know  so  well?   .   .   . 

The  slow,  relentless,  padding  step 

That  never  goes  astray — 
The  rustle  in  the  underbrush — 

The  shadow  in  the  way — 
The  straining  flight — the  long  pursuit — 

The  steady  gain  behind — 
Death-wearied  man  and  tireless  brute, 

And  the  struggle  wild  and  blind! 

There's  a  hot  breath  at  the  keyhole 

And  a  tearing  as  of  teeth! 
Well  do  I  know  the  bloodshot  eyes 

And  the  dripping  jaws  beneath! 
There's  a  whining  at  the  threshold— 

There's  a  scratching  at  the  floor — 
To  work!  To  work!  In  Heaven's  name! 

The  wolf  is  at  the  door! 


202  The    Cry   for    Justice 


T 


By  Robert  Herrick 
(Old  English  lyric  poet,  1591-1674) 

O  mortal  man  great  loads  allotted  be; 
But  of  all  packs,  no  pack  like  poverty. 


(CacS  Jairainfift  ail 

By  Charles  Fourier 

(One  of  the  early  French  Utopian  writers,  1772-1837;    author  of  a 
theory  of  social  co-operation  which  is  stiU  known  by  his  name) 

THE  present  social  order  is  a  ridiculous  mechanism, 
in  which  portions  of  the  whole  are  in  conflict  and 
acting  against  the  whole.  We  see  each  class  in  society 
desire,  from  interest,  the  misfortune  of  the  other  classes, 
placing  in  every  way  individual  interest  in  opposition  to 
public  good.  The  lawyer  wishes  litigations  and  suits, 
particularly  among  the  rich;  the  physician  desires  sick- 
ness. (The  latter  would  be  ruined  if  everybody  died 
without  disease,  as  would  the  former  if  all  quarrels  were 
settled  by  arbitration.)  The  soldier  wants  a  war,  which 
will  carry  off  half  his  comrades  and  secure  him  pro- 
motion; the  undertaker  wants  burials;  monopolists  and 
forestallers  want  famine,  to  double  or  treble  the  price 
of  grain;  the  architect,  the  carpenter,  the  mason,  want 
conflagrations,  that  will  burn  down  a  hundred  houses 
to  give  activity  to  their  branches  of  business. 


o 


By   Matthew  Arnold 

(English  essayist  and  poet,  1822-1888) 

UR   inequality   materializes    our    upper    class,    vul- 
garizes our  middle  class,  brutalizes  our  lower  class. 


Out  of  the  Depths  203 

By  Maxim  Gorky 

(A  novel  in  which  the  Russian  has  portrayed  the  spiritual  agonies 

of  his  race.     In  this  scene  a  poor  school-teacher 

voices  his  despair) 

"X/'OZHOV  drank  his  tea  at  one  draught,  thrust  the 
■*■  glass  on  the  saucer,  placed  his  feet  on  the  edge  of 
the  chair,  and  clasping  his  knees  in  his  hands,  rested  his 
chin  upon  them.  In  this  pose,  small  sized  and  flexible 
as  rubber,  he  began: 

"The  student  Sachkov,  my  former  teacher,  who  is 
now  a  doctor  of  medicine,  a  whist  player  and  a  mean 
fellow  all  around,  used  to  tell  me  whenever  I  knew  my 
lesson  well:  'You're  a  fine  fellow,  Kolya!  You  are  an 
able  boy.  We  proletarians,  plain  and  poor  people,  com- 
ing from  the  backyard  of  life,  we  must  study  and  study, 
in  order  to  come  to  the  front,  ahead  of  everybody.  Russia 
is  in  need  of  wise  and  honest  people.  Try  to  be  such,  and 
you  will  be  master  of  your  fate  and  a  useful  member  of 
society.  On  us  commoners  rest  the  best  hopes  of  the 
country.  We  are  destined  to  bring  into  it  light,  truth,' 
and  so  on.  I  believed  him,  the  brute.  And  since  then 
about  twenty  years  have  elapsed.  We  proletarians  have 
grown  up,  but  have  neither  appropriated  any  wisdom  nor 
brought  light  into  life.  As  before,  Russia  is  suffering 
from  its  chronic  disease — a  superabundance  of  rascals; 
while  we,  the  proletarians,  take  pleasure  in  filling  their 
dense  throngs." 

Yozhov's  face  wrinkled  into  a  bitter  grimace,  and  he 
began  to  laugh  noiselessly,  with  his  lips  only.  "I,  and 
many  others  with  me,  we  have  robbed  ourselves  for  the 


204  The    Cry   for    Justice 

sake  of  saving  up  something  for  life.  Desiring  to  make 
myself  a  valuable  man,  I  have  imderrated  my  individual- 
ity in  every  way  possible.  In  order  to  study  and  not 
die  of  starvation,  I  have  for  six  years  in  succession  taught 
blockheads  how  to  read  and  write,  and  had  to  bear  a 
mass  of  abominations  at  the  hands  of  various  papas  and 
mammas,  who  humiliated  me  without  any  constraint. 
Earning  my  bread  and  tea,  I  could  not,  I  had  not  the 
time  to  earn  my  shoes,  and  I  had  to  turn  to  charitable 
institutions  with  humble  petitions  for  loans  on  the  strength 
of  my  poverty.  If  the  philanthropists  could  only  reckon 
up  how  much  of  the  spirit  they  kill  in  man  while  sup- 
porting the  life  of  his  body!  If  they  only  knew  that  each 
rouble  they  give  for  bread  contains  ninety-nine  copecks 
worth  of  poison  for  the  soul!  If  they  could  only  burst 
from  excess  of  their  kindness  and  pride,  which  they  draw 
from  their  holy  activity!  There  is  no  one  on  earth 
more  disgusting  and  repulsive  tl^.n  he  who  gives  alms. 
Even  as  there  is  no  one  so  miserable  as  he  who  accepts 
them." 


^It  &ifi:8t  of  SiuquaUtg 

{From  "The  Farther  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe") 

By  Daniel  Defoe 

(English  novelist  and  pamphleteer,  1661-1731;   many  times 
imprisoned  for  satires  upon  the  authorities) 

T  SAW  the  world  round  me,  one  part  laboring  for 
■'•  bread,  and  the  other  part  squandering  in  vile  excess 
or  empty  pleasures,  equally  miserable,  because  the  end 
they  proposed  still  fled  from  them;  for  the  man  of  pleas- 


Out  of  the  Depths  205 

ure  every  day  surfeited  of  his  vice,  and  heaped  up  work 
for  sorrow  and  repentance;  and  the  man  of  labor  spent 
his  strength  in  daily  struggling  for  bread  to  maintain 
the  vital  strength  he  labored  with;  so  living  in  a  daily 
circulation  of  sorrow,  living  but  to  work,  and  working 
but  to  live,  as  if  daily  bread  were  the  only  end  of  a 
wearisome  life,  and  a  wearisome  life  the  only  occasion 
of  daily  bread. 


fefttlemint  Mlotfe* 

{From  "A  Man's  World")    ■ 

By  Albebt  Edwards       ' 

(Pen-name  of  Arthur  Bullard,  American  novelist  and  war- 
oorrespoDdent) 

AFTER  all,  what  good  were  these  settlement  workers 
■•  doing?  Again  and  again  this  question  demanded  an 
answer.  Sometimes  I  went  out  with  Mr.  Dawn  to  help 
in  burying  the  dead.  I  could  see  no  adequate  connec- 
tion between  his  kindly  words  to  the  bereaved  and  the 
hideous  dragon  of  tuberculosis  which  stalked  through  the 
crowded  district.  What  good  did  Dawn's  ministrations 
do?  Sometimes  I  went  out  with  Miss  Bronson,  the 
kindergartner,  and  listened  to  her  talk  to  uncompre- 
hending mothers  about  their  duties  to  their  children. 
What  could  Miss  Bronson  accomplish  by  playing  a  few 
hours  a  day  with  the  youngsters  who  had  to  go  to  filthy 
homes?  They  were  given  a  wholesome  lunch  at  the 
settlement.  But  the  two  other  meals  a  day  they  must 
eat  poorly  cooked,  adulterated  food.     Sometimes  I  went 

*  By  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Co. 


206  The    Cry   for    Justice 

out  with  Miss  Cole,  the  nurse,  to  visit  her  cases.  It 
was  hard  for  me  to  imagine  anything  more  futile  than 
her  single-handed  struggle  against  unsanitary  tenements 
and  imsanitary  shops. 

I  remember  especially  one  visit  I  made  with  her.  It 
was  the  crisis  for  me.  The  case  was  a  child-birth.  There 
were  six  other  children,  all  in  one  unventilated  room; 
its  single  window  looked  out  on  a  dark,  choked,  airshaft; 
and  the  father  was  a  drunkard.  I  remember  sitting 
there,  after  the  doctor  had  gone,  holding  the  next  young- 
est baby  on  my  knee,  while  Miss  Cole  was  bathing  the 
puny  newcomer. 

"Can't  you  make  him  stop  crying  for  a  minute?" 
Miss  Cole  asked  nervously. 

"No,"  I  said  with  sudden  rage.  "I  can't.  I  wouldn't 
if  I  could.  Why  shouldn't  he  cry?  Why  doii't  the 
other  little  fools  cry?     Do  you  want  them  to  laugh?" 

She  stopped  working  with  the  baby  and  offered  me  a 
flask  of  brandy  from  her  bag.  But  brandy  was  not 
what  I  wanted.  Of  course  I  knew  men  sank  to  the  very 
dregs.  But  I  had  never  realized  that  some  are  born 
there. 

When  she  had  done  all  she  could  for  the  mother  and 
child,  Miss  Cole  put  her  things  back  in  the  bag  and  we 
started  home.  It  was  long  after  midnight,  but  the  streets 
were  still  alive. 

"What  good  does  it  do?"  I  demanded  vehemently. 
"Oh,  I  know — you  and  the  doctor  saved  the  mother's 
life — brought  a  new  one  into  the  world  and  all  that. 
But  what  good  does  it  do?  The  child  will  die — it  was  a 
girl — let's  get  down  on  our  knees  right  here  and  pray 
the  gods  that  it  may  die  soon — not  grow  up  to  want  and 
fear — and  shame."     Then  I  laughed.      "No,  there's  no 


Out  of  the  Depths  207 

use  praying.  She'll  die  all  right!  They'll  begin  feeding 
her  beer  out  of  a  can  before  she's  weaned.  No.  Not 
that.  I  don't  believe  the  mother  will  be  able  to  nurse 
her.  She'll  die  of  skimmed  milk.  And  if  that  don't 
do  the  trick  there's  T.  B.  and  several  other  things  for  her 
to  catch.  Oh,  she'll  die  all  right!  And  next  year  there'll 
be  another.  For  God's  sake,  what's  the  use?  What 
good  does  it  do?"     Abruptly  I  began  to  swear. 

"You  mustn't  talk  hke  that,"  Miss  Cole  said  in  a 
strained  voice. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  curse?"  I  said  fiercely,  turning  on 
her  challengingly,  trying  to  think  of  some  greater  blas- 
phemy to  hurl  at  the  muddle  of  life.  But  the  sight  of 
her  face,  livid  with  weariness,  her  lips  twisting  spasmod- 
ically from  nervous  exhaustion,  showed  me  one  reason 
not  to.  The  realization  that  I  had  been  so  brutal  to  her 
shocked  me  horribly. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  cried. 

She  stmnbled  slightly.  I  thought  she  was  going  to 
faint  and  I  put  my  arm  about  her  to  steady  her.  She 
was  almost  old  enough  to  be  my  mother,  but  she  put  her 
head  on  my  shoulder  and  cried  like  a  Uttle  child.  We 
stood  there  on  the  sidewalk — in  the  glare  of  a  noisy,  loath- 
some saloon — like  two  frightened  children.  I  don't  think 
either  of  us  saw  any  reason  to  go  anywhere.  But  we 
dried  our  eyes  at  last  and  from  mere  force  of  habit  walked 
blindly  back  to  the  children's  house.  On  the  steps  she 
broke  the  long  silence. 

"I  know  how  you  feel — everyone's  hke  that  at  first, 
but  you'll  get  used  to  it.  I  can't  tell  'why.'  I  can't  see 
that  it  does  much  good.  But  it's  got  to  be  done.  You 
mustn't  think  about  it.  There  are  things  to  do,  today, 
tomorrow,   all  the  time.      Things  that  must  be  done. 


208  The    Cry   for    Justice 

That's  how  we  hve.  So  many  things  to  do,  we  can't 
think.  It  would  kill  you  if  you  had  time  to  think. 
You've  got  to  work — work. 

"You'll  stay  too.  I  know.  You  won't  be  able  to  go 
away.  You've  been  here  too  long.  You  won't  ever 
know  'why.'  You'll  stop  asking  if  it  does  any  good. 
And  I  tell  you  if  you  stop  to  think  about  it,  it  will  kill 
you.     You  must  work." 

She  went  to  her  room  and  I  across  the  deserted  court- 
yard and  up  to  mine.  But  there  was  no  sleep.  It  was 
that  night  that  I  first  reahzed  that  I  also  must.  I  had 
seen  so  much  I  could  never  forget.  It  was  something 
from  which  there  was  no  escape.  No  matter  how  glorious 
the  open  fields,  there  would  always  be  the  remembered 
stink  of  the  tenements  in  my  nostrils.  The  vision  of  a 
sunken-cheeked,  tuberculosis-ridden  pauper  would  always 
rise  between  me  and  the  beauty  of  the  sunset.  A  crowd 
of  hurrying  ghosts — the  ghosts  of  the  slaughtered  babies — 
would  follow  me  everjrwhere,  crying  "Coward,"  if  I  ran 
away.    The  slums  had  taken  me  captive. 


Concerning  aaiomm 

{From  "Aurora  Leigh") 
By  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

(English  poetess,  1806-1861 ;  wife  of  Robert  Browning,  and  an  ardent 
champion  of  the  Hberties  of  the  Italian  people) 

•   T   CALL  you  hard 
-^    To  general  suffering.     Here's  the  world  half  blind 
With  intellectual  light,  half  brutalized 
With  ci\'ilization,  having  caught  the  plague 


Out   of  the  Depths  2C9 

In  silks  from  Tarsus,  shrieking  east  and  west 

Along  a  thousand  railroads,  mad  with  pain 

And  sin  too!  .  .  .  does  one  woman  of  you  all, 

(You  who  weep  easily)  grow  pale  to  see 

This  tiger  shake  his  cage? — does  one  of  you 

Stand  still  from  dancing,  stop  from  stringing  pearls. 

And  pine  and  die  because  of  the  great  sum 

Of  universal  anguish? — Show  me  a  tear 

Wet  as  Cordelia's,  in  eyes  bright  as  yours. 

Because  the  world  is  mad.     You  cannot  count. 

That  you  should  weep  for  this  account,  not  you! 

You  weep  for  what  you  know.    A  red-haired  child 

Sick  in  a  fever,  if  you  touch  him  once. 

Though  but  so  little  as  with  a  finger-tip. 

Will  set  you  weeping;  but  a  million  sick — 

You  could  as  soon  weep  for  the  rule  of  three 

Or  compomid  fractions.     Therefore,  this  same  world, 

Uncomprehended  by  you. — Women  as  you  are. 

Mere  women,  personal  and  passionate. 

You  give  us  doting  mothers,  and  perfect  wives. 

Sublime  Madonnas,  and  enduring  saints! 

We  get  no  Christ  from  you, — and  verily 

We  shall  not  get  a  poet,  in  my  mind. 


QZllomen  and  C^conomtc^ 

By  Charlotte  Perkins  Oilman 
(See  page  200) 

RECOGNIZING  her  intense  feeling  on  moral  lines, 
and  seeing  in  her  the  rigidly  preserved  virtues  of 
faith,  submission,  and  self-sacrifice — qualities  which  in 
the  dark  ages  were  held  to  be  the  first  of  virtues, — we 

14 


210  The    Cry   for    Justice 

have  agreed  of  late  years  to  call  woman  the  moral  superior 
of  man.  But  the  ceaseless  growth  of  human  hfe,  social 
Ufe,  has  developed  in  him  new  virtues,  later,  higher, 
more  needful;  and  the  moral  nature  of  woman,  as  main- 
tained in  this  rudimentary  stage  by  her  economic  depend- 
ence, is  a  continual  check  to  the  progress  of  the  human 
soul.  The  main  feature  of  her  life — ^the  restriction  of  her 
range  and  duty  to  the  love  and  service  of  her  own  imme- 
diate family — acts  upon  us  continually  as  a  retarding 
influence,  hindering  the  expansion  of  the  spirit  of  social 
love  and  service  on  which  our  very  lives  depend.  It 
keeps  the  moral  standard  of  the  patriarchal  era  still  before 
us,  and  blinds  our  eyes  to  the  full  duty  of  man. 


•^Eflt  mtonstvilnt00  ot  llSiitbt& 

By  Grant  Allen 
(English  essayist  and  nature  student,  1848-1899) 

IF  you  are  on  the  side  of  the  spoilers,  then  you  are  a 
bad  man.  If  you  are  on  the  side  of  social  justice, 
then  you  are  a  good  one.  There  is  no  effective  test  of 
high  morahty  at  the  present  day  save  this. 

Critics  of  the  middle-class  type  often  exclaim,  of  reason- 
ing like  this,  "What  on  earth  makes  him  say  it?  What 
has  he  to  gain  by  talking  in  that  way?  What  does  he 
expect  to  get  by  it?"  So  bound  up  are  they  in  the  idea 
of  a  self-interest  as  the  one  motive  of  action  that  they 
never  even  seem  to  conceive  of  honest  conviction  as  a 
ground  for  speaking  out  the  truth  that  is  in  one.  To  such 
critics  I  would  answer,  "The  reason  why  I  write  all  this 
is  because  I  profoundly  believe  it.     I  believe  the  poor 


Out  of  the  Depths  211 

are  being  kept  out  of  their  own.  I  believe  the  rich  are 
for  the  most  part  selfish  and  despicable.  I  believe  wealth 
has  been  generally  piled  up  by  cruel  and  unworthy  means. 
I  believe  it  is  wrong  in  us  to  acquiesce  in  the  wicked 
inequaUties  of  oiu-  existing  social  state,  instead  of  trying 
our  utmost  to  bring  about  another,  where  right  would 
be  done  to  all,  where  poverty  would  be  impossible.  I 
believe  such  a  system  is  perfectly  practicable,  and  that 
nothing  stands  in  its  way  save  the  selfish  fears  and  prej- 
udices of  individuals.  And  I  believe  that  even  those 
craven  fears  and  narrow  prejudices  are  wholly  mistaken; 
that  everybody,  including  the  rich  themselves,  would  be 
infinitely  happier  in  a  world  where  no  poverty  existed, 
where  no  hateful  sights  and  sounds  met  the  eye  at  every 
turn,  where  all  slums  were  swept  away,  and  where  every- 
body had  their  just  and  even  share  of  pleasures  and 
refinements  in  a  free  and  equal  community." 


SDespafc 

By  Lady  Wilde 

(Irish  poetess,  mother  of  Oscar  Wilde;    wrote  under  the  pen-name 
of  Speranza) 

TD  EFOEE  us  dies  our  brother,  of  starvation; 
-*— '     Around  are  cries  of  famine  and  despair! 
Where  is  hope  for  us,  or  comfort  or  salvation — 

Where — oh!  where? 
If  the  angels  ever  hearken,  downward  bending, 

They  are  weeping,  we  are  sure. 
At  the  litanies  of  human  groans  ascending 

From  the  crushed  hearts  of  the  poor. 


£12  The    Cry   for    Justice 

We  never  knew  a  childhood's  mirth  and  gladness, 

Nor  the  proud  heart  of  youth  free  and  brave; 
Oh,  a  death-like  dream  of  wretchedness  and  sadness 

Is  life's  weary  journey  to  the  grave! 
Day  by  day  we  lower  sink,  and  lower, 

Till  the  God-like  soul  -ndthin 
Falls  crushed  beneath  the  fearful  demon  power 

Of  poverty  and  sin. 

So  we  toil  on,  on  with  fever  burning 

In  heart  and  brain; 
So  we  toil  on,  on  through  bitter  scorning. 

Want,  woe,  and  pain. 
We  dare  not  raise  our  eyes  to  the  blue  heavens 

Or  the  toil  must  cease — 
We  dare  not  breathe  the  fresh  air  God  has  given 

One  hour  in  peace. 


ImqmlitiS  of  ^taltjb 

By  G.  Bernard  Shaw 
(See  page  193) 

I  AM  not  bound  to  keep  my  temper  with  an  imposture 
so  outrageous,  so  abjectly  sycophantic,  as  the  pretence 
that  the  existing  inequalities  of  income  correspond  to 
and  are  produced  by  moral  and  physical  inferiorities  and 
superiorities — ^that  Barnato  was  five  million  times  as 
great  and  good  a  man  as  William  Blake,  and  committed 
suicide  because  he  lost  two-fifths  of  his  superiority;  that 
the  life  of  Lord  Anglesey  has  been  on  a  far  higher  plane 
than  that  of  John  Ruskin;  that  Mademoiselle  Liane  de 
Pougy  has  been  raised  by  her  successful  sugar  specula- 


.ll'l.l.S     lilMiUE    VAN    BIESBROECK 

(Sciiliiliif  III'  llir  Bilqliiii  SariaUd  and  co-operative  iiinrettients; 
horn  1S73) 


Out  of  the  Depths  213 

tion  to  moral  heights  never  attained  by  Florence  Nightin- 
gale; and  that  an  arrangement  to  establish  economic 
equality  between  them  by  duly  adjusted  pensions  would 
be  impossible.  I  say  that  no  sane  person  can  be  expected 
to  treat  such  impudent  follies  with  patience,  much  less 
with  respect. 


By  William  Blake 
(See  page  98) 

T   HEARD  an  Angel  singing 
■'■     When  the  day  was  springing: 

"Mercy,  pity,  and  peace. 

Are  the  world's  release." 

So  he  sang  all  day 
Over  the  new-mown  hay, 
Till  the  sun  went  down, 
And  haycocks  looked  brown 

I  heard  a  Devil  curse 
Over  the  heath  and  the  furze: 
"Mercy  could  be  no  more 
If  there  were  nobody  poor. 
And  pity  no  more  could  be 

If  all  were  happy  as  ye: 
And  mutual  fear  brings  peace. 
Misery's  increase 
Are  mercy,  pity,  peace." 

At  his  curse  the  sxm  went  down. 
And  the  heavens  gave  a  frown. 


214  The    Cry   for    Justice 


T 


By  Jambs  Anthony  Feoude 
(English  historian,  1818-1894) 

HE  endurance  of  the  inequalities  of  life  by  the  pojbr 
is  the  marvel  of  human  society. 


By  Leonid  Andreyev 

(In  this  strange  drama,  which  might  be  called  a  symboUo  tragi- 
comedy, the  Russian  writer  has  set  forth  the  pUght  of  the  educated 
people  of  his  coontry,  confronted  by  the  abject  superstition  of  the 
peasantry.  Savva,  a  fanatical  revolutionist,  endeavors  to  wipe 
out  this  superstition  by  blowing  up  a  monastery  fall  of  drunken 
monks.  But  the  plot  is  revealed  to  the  monks,  who  carry  out  the 
ikon,  or  sacred  image,  before  the  explosion,  and  afterwards  carry  it 
back  into  the  ruins.  The  peasants,  arriving  on  the  scene  and  find- 
ing the  ikon  uninjured,  hail  a  supreme  miracle;  the  whole  country 
is  swept  by  a  wave  of  religious  frenzy,  in  the  course  of  which  Sawa 
is  trampled  to  death  by  a  mob. 

In  the  following  scene  Sawa  argues  with  his  sister,  a  reUgious 
believer.     The  tramp  of  pilgrims  is  heard  outside) 

OAWA  (smiling): — The  tramp  of  death! 
^  Lipa: — Remember  that  each  one  of  these  would 
consider  himself  happy  in  killing  you,  in  crushing  you 
Uke  a  reptile.  Each  one  of  these  is  your  death.  Why, 
they  beat  a  simple  thief  to  death,  a  horse  thief.  What 
would  they  not  do  to  you?  You  who  wanted  to  steal 
their  God! 

Sawa: — Quite  true.     That's  property  too. 

Lipa: — You  still  have  the  brazenness  to  joke?  Who 
gave  you  the  right  to  do  such  a  thing?     Who  gave  you 


Out  of  the  Depths  215 

the  power  over  people?  How  dare  you  meddle  with  what 
to  them  is  right?     How  dare  you  interfere  with  their  life? 

Sawa: — Who  gave  me  the  right?  You  gave  it  to  me. 
Who  gave  me  the  power?  You  gave  it  to  me— you  with 
your  malice,  your  ignorance,  your  stupidity!  You  with 
your  wretched  impotence!  Right!  Power!  They  have 
turned  the  earth  into  a  sewer,  an  outrage,  an  abode  of 
slaves.  They  worry  each  other,  they  torture  each  other, 
and  they  ask:  "Who  dares  to  take  us  by  the  throat?" 
I!    Do  you  understand?     I! 

Lipa: — But  to  destroy  all!     Think  of  it! 

Sawa: — What  could  you  do  with  them?  What  would 
you  do?  Try  to  persuade  the  oxen  to  turn  away  from 
their  bovine  path?  Catch  each  one  by  his  horn  and  pull 
him  away?  Would  you  put  on  a  frock-coat  and  read  a 
lecture?  Haven't  they  had  plenty  to  teach  them?  As 
if  words  and  thought  had  any  significance  to  them! 
Thought — pure,  unhappy  thought!  They  have  per- 
verted it.  They  have  taught  it  to  cheat  and  defraud. 
They  have  made  it  a  salable  commodity,  to  be  bought 
at  auction  in  the  market.  No,  sister,  life  is  short,  and  I 
am  not  going  to  waste  it  in  arguments  with  oxen.  The 
way  to  deal  with  them  is  by  fire.  That's  what  they 
require — fire! 

Lipa: — But  what  do  you  want?     What  do  you  want? 

Sawa: — What  do  I  want?  To  free  the  earth,  to  free 
mankind.  Man — the  man  of  today — is  wise.  He  has 
come  to  his  senses.  He  is  ripe  for  liberty.  But  the  past 
eats  away  his  soul  like  a  canker.  It  imprisons  him  within 
the  iron  circle  of  things  already  accomplished.  I  want 
to  do  away  with  everything  behind  man,  so  that  there 
is  nothing  to  see  when  he  looks  back.  I  want  to  take 
him  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  turn  his  face  toward 
the  future! 


216  The    Cry   for    Justice 


By  John  Davidson        ' 

(Scotch  poet  and  dramatist,  1857-1909;  after  struggling  for  many 
years  in  London  against  poverty  and  Hi-health,  committed  suicide, 
leaving  some  of  the  most  strikiiig  and  original  poetry  of  the  present 


THIS  Beauty,  this  Divinity,  this  Thought, 
This  hallowed  bower  and  harvest  of  delight 
Whose  roots  ethereal  seemed  to  clutch  the  stars, 
Whose  amaranths  perfumed  eternity. 
Is  fixed  in  earthly  soil  enriched  with  bones 
Of  used-up  workers;  fattened  with  the  blood 
Of  prostitutes,  the  prime  manure;  and  dressed 
With  brains  of  madmen  and  the  broken  hearts 
Of  children.     Understand  it,  you  at  least 
Who  toil  all  day  and  writhe  and  groan  all  night 
With  roots  of  luxiny,  a  cancer  struck 
In  every  muscle :  out  of  you  it  is 
.  Cathedrals  rise  and  Heaven  blossoms  fair; 
You  are  the  hidden  putrefying  somrce 
Of  beauty  and  delight,  of  leisured  hours, 
Of  passionate  loves  and  high  imaginings; 
You  are  the  dung  that  keeps  the  roses  sweet. 
I  say,  uproot  it;  plough  the  land;   and  let 
A  svimmer-faUow  sweeten  all  the  World. 


Out   of  the  Depths  217 

{From  "Death  and  the  Child") 

By  Stephen  Crane 

(American  novelist  and  poet,  1870-1900) 

'  I  "HESE  stupid  peasants,  who,  throughout  the  world, 
•*■  hold  potentates  on  their  thrones,  make  statesmen 
illustrious,  provide  generals  with  lasting  victories,  all  with 
ignorance,  indifference,  or  half-witted  hatred,  moving  the 
world  with  the  strength  of  their  arms,  and  getting  their 
heads  knocked  together,  in  the  name  of  God,  the  king, 
or  the  stock  exchange — ^immortal,  dreaming,  hopeless 
asses,  who  surrender  their  reason  to  the  care  of  a  shining 
puppet,  and  persuade  some  toy  to  carry  their  lives  in 
his  purse. 


an  Italian  B,e0taurant 

{From  "  A  Bed  of  Roses")      -, 

By  W.  L.  Geobge 
(Contemporary  English  novelist) 

THEY  sat  at  a  marble  topped  table,  flooded  with  light 
by  incandescent  gas.  In  the  glare  the  waiters 
seemed  blacker,  smaller  and  more  stunted  than  by  the 
hght  of  day.  Their  faces  were  pallid,  with  a  touch  of 
green:  their  hair  and  moustaches  were  almost  blue  black. 
Their  energy  was  that  of  automata.  Victoria  looked  at 
them,  melting  with  pity. 

"There's  a  life  for  you,"  said  Farwell,  interpreting  her 
look.      "Sixteen  hours'  work  a  day  in  an  atmosphere 


S18  The    Cry   for    Justice 

of  stale  food.  For  meals,  plate  scourings.  For  sleep 
and  time  to  get  to  it,  eight  hours.  For  living,  the  rest 
of  the  day." 

"It's  .:.wful,  awful,"  said  Victoria.  "They  might 
as  well  be  dead." 

"They  will  be  soon,"  said  Farwell,  "but  what  does 
that  matter?  There  are  plenty  of  waiters.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  olive  groves  tonight  in  far-off  Calabria, 
at  the  base  of  the  vine-clad  hills,  couples  are  walking 
hand  in  hand,  with  passion  flashing  in  their  eyes.  Brown 
peasant  boys  are  clasping  to  their  breast  young  girls 
with  dark  hair,  white  teeth,  red  lips,  hearts  that  beat 
and  quiver  with  ecstasy.  They  tell  a  tale  of  love  and 
hope.     So  we  shall  not  be  short  of  waiters." 


ConfffSt 

By  Carlos  Wuppeeman 
(Contemporary  American  poet) 

TONIGHT  the  beautiful,  chaste  moon 
From  heaven's  height 
Scatters  over  the  bridal  earth 

Blossoms  of  white; 
And  spring's  renewed  glad  charms  imfold 
Endless  delight. 

Such  mystic  wonder  the  hushed  world  wears, 

Evil  has  fled 
Far,  far  away;   in  every  heart 

God  reigns  instead.  .  .  . 
Tonight  a  starving  virgin  sells 

Her  soul  for  bread. 


Out  of  the  Depths  219 

^  ^mi^-^ta  30lanticc 

By  Francis  Adams  > 

(English  poet  and  rebel,  1862-1893;   his  Ufe,  a  brief  straggle  with 
poverty  and  disease,  was  ended  by  his  own  hand) 

A  LOLL  in  the  warm  clear  water, 
'  On  her  back  with  languorous  limbs 
She  lies.     The  baby  upon  her  breast 
Paddles  and  falls  and  swims. 

With  half-closed  eyes  she  smiles, 

Guarding  it  with  her  hands; 
And  the  sob  swells  up  in  my  heart — 

In  my  heart  that  miderstands. 

Dear,  in  the  English  country, 

The  hatefullest  land  on  earth, 
The  mothers  are  starved  and  the  children  die 

And  death  is  better  than  hirth!  ' 


•SDut  ot  t^t  JeDatlt 

By  Helen  Keller 

(America's  most  famous  bhnd  girl,  bom  1880,  who  has  come  to  see 
more  than  most  people  with  normal  eyes) 

OTEP  by  step  my  investigation  of  blindness  led  me 
^  into  the  industrial  world.  And  what  a  world  it  is! 
I  must  face  unflinchingly  a  world  of  facts — a  world  of 
misery  and  degradation,  of  blindness,  crookedness,  and 
sm,  a  world  struggling  against  the  elements,  against  the 


220  The    Cry   for    Justice 

unknown,  against  itself.  How  reconcile  this  world  of 
fact  with  the  bright  world  of  my  imagining?  My  dark- 
ness had  been  filled  with  the  hght  of  intelligence,  and, 
behold,  the  outer  day-lit  world  was  stumbling  and  grop- 
ing in  social  blindness.  At  first  I  was  most  unhappy; 
but  deeper  study  restored  my  confidence.  By  learning 
the  sufferings  and  burdens  of  men,  I  became  aware  as 
never  before  of  the  life-power  that  has  survived  the  forces 
of  darkness— the  power  which,  though  never  completely 
victorious,  is  continuously  conquering.  The  very  fact 
that  we  are  still  here  carrying  on  the  contest  against  the 
hosts  of  annihilation  proves  that  on  the  whole  the  battle 
has  gone  for  humanity.  The  world's  great  heart  has 
proved  equal  to  the  prodigious  undertaking  which  God 
set  it.  Rebuffed,  but  always  persevering;  self -reproached, 
but  ever  regaining  faith;  undaunted,  tenacious,  the  heart 
of  man  labors  towards  immeasurably  distant  goals.  Dis- 
couraged not  by  difficulties  without,  or  the  anguish  of 
ages  within,  the  heart  listens  to  a  secret  voice  that 
whisp6rs:  "Be  not  dismayed;  in  the  future  lies  the 
Promised  Land." 


^tit0  ot  %mt 

By  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 

(American  poet  and  essayist,  1823-1911;    a  vehement  anti-slavery 

agitator,  he  was  colonel  of  the  first  negro  regiment  during  the 

Civil  War,  and  in  later  life  became  a  devoted  Socialist) 

pi^ROM  street  and  square,  from  hill  and  glen, 
■*•        Of  this  vast  world  beyond  my  door, 
I  hear  the  tread  of  marching  men. 
The  patient  armies  of  the  poor. 


Out  of  the  Depths  221 

Not  ermine-clad  or  clothed  in  state, 
Their  title-deeds  not  yet  made  plain,  " 

But  waking  early,  toiling  late, 
The  heirs  of  all  the  earth  remain. 

The  peasant  brain  shall  yet  be  wise. 
The  untamed  pulse  grow  calm  and  still; 

The  blind  shall  see,  the  lowly  rise. 

And  work  in  peace  Time's  wondrous  will. 

Some  day,  without  a  trumpet's  call 
This  news  will  o'er  the  world  be  blown: 

"The  heritage  comes  back  to  all; 

The  myriad  monarchs  take  their  own." 


ffi^onli  ^^uman  Sl^ffffit 

By  Bjobnstjerne  Bjornson 

(Next  to  Ibsen,  the  gi-eatest  of  Norwegian  dramatists,  1832 — 1910. 
In  the  following  scene,  from  a  two-part  symbolic  drama  of  the 
problem  of  labor  and  capital,  a  young  clergyman  is  speaking  to 
a  crowd  of  miners  in  the  midst  of  a  bitterly  fought  strike) 

BRATT: — Here  it  is  dark  and  cold.  Here  few  work 
hopefully,  and  no  one  joyfully.  Here  the  children 
won't  thrive — they  yearn  for  the  sea  and  the  daylight. 
They  crave  the  sun.  But  it  lasts  only  a  little  while, 
and  then  they  give  up.  They  learn  that  among  those 
who  have  been  cast  down  here  there  is  rarely  one  who 
can  climb  up  again. 

Several: — That's  right!  .  .  . 

Bratt: — What  is  there  to  herald  the  coming  of  better 
things?  A  new  generation  up  there?  Listen  to  what 
their  young  people  answer  for  themselves:    "We  want  a 


The    Cry   for    Justice 


good  time!"  And  their  books?  The  books  and  the 
youth  together  make  the  future.  And  what  do  the 
books  say?  Exactly  the  same  as  the  youth:  "Let  us 
have  a  good  time!  Ours  are  the  hght  and  the  lust  of 
life,  its  colors  and  its  joys!"  That's  what  the  youth 
and  their  books  say. — They  are  right!  It  is  all  theirs! 
There  is  no  law  to  prevent  their  taking  life's  sunlight 
and  joy  away  from  the  poor  people.  For  those  who  have 
the  sun  have  also  made  the  law. — But  then  the  next 
question  is  whether  we  might  not  scramble  up  high  enough 
to  take  part  in  the  writing  of  a  new  law.  {This  is  received 
with  thundering  cheers.)  What  is  needed  is  that  one  gen- 
eration makes  an  effort  strong  enough  to  raise  all  coming 
generations  into  the  vigorous  life  of  full  sunlight. 

Many: — Yes,  yes! 

Bratt: — But  so  far  every  generation  has  put  it  off  on 
the  next  one.  Until  at  last  our  turn  has  come — to  bear 
sacrifices  and  sufferings  like  unto  those  of  death  itself! 


By  Heinrich  Heine 
(See  page  97) 

I  "HEIR  eyelids  are  drooping,  no  tears  lie  beneath ; 

■*-      They  stand  at  the  loom  and  grind  their  teeth; 
"We  are  weaving  a  shroud  for  the  doubly  dead, 
And  a  threefold  curse  in  its  every  thread — 
We  are  weaving,  still  weaving. 

"A  curse  for  the  Godhead  to  whom  we  have  bowed 
In  our  cold  and  oiu*  hunger,  we  weave  in  the  shroud; 
For  in  vain  have  we  hoped  and  in  vain  have  prayed ; 
He  has  mocked  us  and  scoffed  at  us,  sold  and  betrayed- 
We  are  weaving,  still  weaving. 


Out  of  the  Depths  22S 

"A  curse  for  the  king  of  the  wealthy  and  proud, 
Who  for  us  had  no  pity,  we  weave  in  the  shroud; 
Who  takes  our  last  penny  to  swell  out  his  purse. 
While  we  die  the  death  of  a  dog — yea,  a  curse — 
We  are  weaving,  still  weaving. 

"A  ciu"se  for  our  country,  whose  cowardly  crowd 
Hold  her  shame  in  high  honor,  we  weave  in  the  shroud; 
Whose  blossoms  are  blighted  and  slain  in  the  germ. 
Whose  filth  and  corruption  engender  the  worm — 
We  are  weaving,  still  weaving. 

"To  and  fro  flies  our  shuttle — ^no  pause  ia  its  flight, 
'Tis  a  shroud  we  are  weaving  by  day  and  by  night; 
We  are  weaving  a  shroud  for  the  worse  than  dead. 
And  a  threefold  curse  in  its  every  thread — 
We  are  weaving — still  weaving." 


^Iton  Eoctte 

By  Charles  Kingslet 
(See  pages  78,  84) 

YES,  it  was  true.  Society  had  not  given  me  my 
rights.  And  woe  unto  the  man  on  whom  that  idea, 
true  or  false,  rises  lurid,  flUing  all  his  thoughts  with 
stifling  glare,  as  of  the  pit  itself.  Be  it  true,  be  it  false, 
it  is  equally  a  woe  to  believe  it;  to  have  to  live  on  a  nega- 
tion; to  have  to  worship  for  our  only  idea,  as  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  us  have  this  day,  the  hatred  of  the  things 
which  are.  Ay,  though  one  of  us  here  and  there  may 
die  in  faith,  in  sight  of  the  promised  land,  yet  is  it  not 


22Ji.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

hard,  when  looking  from  the  top  of  Pisgah  into  "the  good 
time  coming,"  to  watch  the  years  sUpping  away  one  by 
one,  and  death  crawUng  nearer  and  nearer,  and  the 
people  wearjdng  themselves  in  the  fire  for  very  vanity, 
and  Jordan  not  yet  passed,  the  promised  land  not  yet 
entered?  While  our  little  children  die  around  us,  Uke 
lambs  beneath  the  knife,  of  cholera  and  typhus  and  con- 
sumption, and  all  the  diseases  which  the  good  time  can 
and  will  prevent;  which,  as  science  has  proved,  and  you 
the  rich  confess,  might  be  prevented  at  once,  if  you 
dared  to  bring  in  one  bold  and  comprehensive  measm-e, 
and  not  sacrifice  yearly  the  lives  of  thousands  to  the 
idol  of  vested  interests,  and  a  majority  in  the  House. 
Is  it  not  hard  to  men  who  smart  beneath  such  things 
to  help  crying  aloud — "Thou  cursed  Moloch-Mammon, 
take  my  life  if  thou  wilt;  let  me  die  in  the  wilderness, 
for  I  have  deserved  it ;  but  these  little  ones  in  mines  and 
factories,  in  typhus  cellars  and  Tooting  pandemoniums, 
what  have  they  done?  If  not  in  their  fathers'  cause, 
yet  still  in  theirs,  were  it  so  great  a  sin  to  die  upon  a 
barricade?" 


BOOK  V 

%evolt 


The  struggle  to  do  away  with  injustice;  the  battle-cries  of  the 
new  army  which  is  gathering  for  the  deUverance  of  humanity. 


16 


SL  Q^an'jJ  a  9pan  for  a'  "^ICfiat 

By  Robert  Burns 
(Scotland's  most  popular  poet,  1759-1796) 

T  S  there,  for  honest  poverty, 
-'■     That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  daur  be  puir,  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
Our  toils  obscure  and  a'  that. 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp — 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin-grey  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine — 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show  and  a'  that, 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  puir, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'ed  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that; 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that: 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that; 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 
(227) 


SS8  The    Cry   for    Justice 

A  king  can  make  a  belted  knight, 

A  marqms,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Gude  faith,  he  maimna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that) 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth. 

May  bear  the  gree  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that — 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that. 
When  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that. 


By  Thomas  Jefferson 

(President  of  the  United  States  and  author  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  1743-1826) 

ALL  eyes  are  opened  or  opening  to  the  rights  of  man. 
■  The  general  spread  of  the  light  of  science  has  already 
laid  open  to  every  view  the  palpable  truth,  that  the 
mass  of  mankind  has  not  been  bom  with  saddles  on  their 
backs,  nor  a  favored  few  booted  and  spurred,  ready  to 
ride  them  legitimately,  by  the  grace  of  God. 


Revolt  229 

Si  l^intiication  at  jl^atutal  potitiv. 

By  Edmund  Burke 

(British  statesman  and  orator,  1729-1797;    defended  the  American 
colonies  in  Parliament  during  the  Revolutionary  War) 

A  SK  of  politicians  the  ends  for  which  laws  were  orig- 
-^»-  inally  designed,  and  they  will  answer  that  the  laws 
were  designed  as  a  protection  for  the  poor  and  weak, 
against  the  oppression  of  the  rich  and  powerful.  But 
surely  no  pretence  can  be  so  ridiculous;  a  man  might  as 
well  tell  me  he  has  taken  off  my  load,  because  he  has 
changed  the  burden.  If  the  poor  man  is  not  able  to 
support  his  suit  according  to  the  vexatious  and  expensive 
manner  established  in  civilized  countries,  has  not  the 
rich  as  great  an  advantage  over  him  as  the  strong  has 
over  the  weak  in  a  state  of  nature?  .  .  . 

The  most  obvious  division  of  society  is  into  rich  and 
poor,  and  it  is  no  less  obvious  that  the  number  of  the 
former  bear  a  great  disproportion  to  those  of  the  latter. 
The  whole  business  of  the  poor  is  to  administer  to  the 
idleness,  folly,  and  luxury  of  the  rich,  and  that  of  the 
rich,  in  return,  is  to  find  the  best  methods  of  confirming 
the  slavery  and  increasing  the  burdens  of  the  poor.  In 
a  state  of  nature  it  is  an  invariable  law  that  a  man's 
acquisitions  are  in  proportion  to  his  labors.  In  a  state 
of  artificial  society  it  is  a  law  as  constant  and  invariable 
that  those  who  labor  most  enjoy  the  fewest  things,  and 
that  those  who  labor  not  at  all  have  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  enjoyments.  A  constitution  of  things  this,  strange 
and  ridiculous  beyond  expression!  We  scarce  believe  a 
thing  when  we  are  told  it  which  we  actually  see  before 
our  eyes  every  day  without  being  in  th^  least  surprised. 


S30  The    Cry   for    Justice 

I  suppose  that  there  are  in  Great  Britain  upwards  of  an 
hundred  thousand  people  employed  in  lead,  tin,  iron, 
copper,  and  coal  mines;  these  unhappy  wretches  scarce 
ever  see  the  hght  of  the  sun;  they  are  buried  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth;  there  they  work  at  a  severe  and  dis- 
mal task,  without  the  least  prospect  of  being  delivered 
from  it;  they  subsist  upon  the  coarsest  and  worst  sort 
of  fare;  they  have  their  health  miserably  impaired,  and 
their  lives  cut  short,  by  being  perpetually  confined  in 
the  close  vapors  of  these  malignant  minerals.  An  hun- 
dred thousand  more  at  least  are  tortured  without  remis- 
sion by  the  suffocating  smoke,  intense  fires,  and  con- 
stant drudgery  necessary  in  refining  and  managing  the 
products  of  those  mines.  If  any  man  informed  us  that 
two  hundred  thousand  innocent  persons  were  condemned 
to  so  intolerable  slavery,  how  should  we  pity  the  unhappy 
sufferers,  and  how  great  would  be  our  just  indignation 
against  those  who  inflicted  so  cruel  and  ignominious  a 
punishment!  This  is  an  instance — I  could  not  wish  a 
stronger — of  the  numberless  things  which  we  pass  by  in 
their  common  dress,  yet  which  shock  us  when  they  are 
nakedly  represented.  .  .  . 

In  a  misery  of  this  sort,  admitting  some  few  lenitives, 
and  those  too  but  a  few,  nine  parts  in  ten  of  the  whole 
race  of  mankind  drudge  through  life.  It  may  be  urged, 
perhaps,  in  palliation  of  this,  that  at  least  the  rich  few 
find  a  considerable  and  real  benefit  from  the  wretched- 
ness of  the  many.     But  is  this  so  in  fact?  .  .  . 

The  poor  by  their  excessive  labor,  and  the  rich  by 
their  enormous  luxury,  are  set  upon  a  level,  and  ren- 
dered equally  ignorant  of  any  knowledge  which  might 
conduce  to  their  happiness.  A  dismal  view  of  the  interior 
of  all  civil  society!     The  lower  part  broken  and  ground 


Revolt  231 

down  by  the  most  cruel  oppression;  and  the  rich  by  their 
artificial  method  of  life  bringing  worse  evils  on  them- 
selves than  their  tyranny  could  possibly  inflict  on  those 
below  them. 


'atfie  Slntfquitp  of  JFrwtiDm 

By  William  Cullen  Bryant 
(American  poet  and  editor,  1794^1878;   author  of  "Thanatopsis") 

O  FREEDOM !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou;  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword;  thy  brow, 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  launched 
His  boltSj  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  heaven. 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep. 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires. 
Have  forged  thy  chain;   yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound. 
The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward;   terribly  thou  springest  forth. 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 


The    Cry   for    Justice 


By  Lord  Byron 

(English  poet  of  liberty,  1788-1824;  died  while  taking  part  in  the 
war  for  the  liberation  of  Greece) 

HEREDITARY  bondsmen!  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the 
blow? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 


By  Lafcadio  Hearn 

(A  writer  of   Irish  and   Greek  parentage,    1850-1904;    became  a 

lecturer  on  English  in  the  University  of  Tokio.    Japan's 

ablest  interpreter  to  the  western  world) 

"Permit  me  to  say  something  in  opposition  to  a 
-»■  very  famous  and  very  popular  Latin  proverb — In 
medio  tutissimus  ibis — "Thou  wilt  go  most  safely  by 
taking  the  middle  course."  In  speaking  of  two  distinct 
tendencies  in  literature,  you  might  expect  me  to  say 
that  the  aim  of  the  student  should  be  to  avoid  extremes, 
and  to  try  not  to  be  either  too  conservative  or  too  liberal. 
But  I  should  certainly  never  give  any  such  advice.  On 
the  contrary,  I  think  that  the  proverb  above  quoted  is 
one  of  the  most  mischievous,  one  of  the  most  pernicious, 
one  of  the  most  foolish,  that  ever  was  invented  in  the 
world.  I  believe  very  strongly  in  extremes — in  violent 
extremes;  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  all  progress  in  this 
world,  whether  literary,  or  scientific,  or  religious,  or  polit- 
ical, or  social,  has  been  obtained  only  with  the  assistance 
of  extremes.     But  remember  that  I  say,  "With  the  as- 


Revolt  ^33 

sistance," — I  do  not  mean  that  extremes  alone  accom- 
plish the  aim:  there  must  be  antagonism,  but  there 
must  also  be  conservatism.  What  I  mean  by  finding 
fault  with  the  proverb  is  simply  this — ^that  it  is  very 
bad  advice  for  a  young  man.  To  give  a  yoimg  man 
such  advice  is  very  much  like  telling  him  not  to  do  his 
best,  but  only  to  do  half  of  his  best — or,  in  other  words, 
to  be  half-hearted  in  his  imdertaking.  ...  It  is  not  the 
old  men  who  ever  prove  great  reformers:  they  are  too 
cautious,  too  wise.  Reforms  are  made  by  the  vigor  and 
courage  and  the  self-sacrifice  and  the  emotional  convic- 
tion of  young  men,  who  did  not  know  enough  to  be 
afraid,  and  who  feel  much  more  deeply  than  they  think. 
Indeed  great  reforms  are  not  accomplished  by  reasoning, 
but  by  feeling. 


CSi  JFfrst  Ti00ut  ot  "fWtit  %ibneitot" 

{January  1,  1831) 

By  William  Lloyt)  Garrison 

(America's  most  ardent  anti-slavery  agitator,  1805-1879.     The 

following  pronouncement  marked  the  beginning 

of  the  anti-slavery  campaign) 

I  AM  aware  that  many  object  to  the  severity  of  my 
language;  but  is  there  not  cause  for  severity?  I 
will  be  as  harsh  as  Truth,  and  as  uncompromising  as 
Justice.  On  this  subject  I  do  not  wish  to  think,  or 
speak,  or  write,  with  moderation.  No!  No!  Tell  a  man 
whose  house  is  on  fire  to  give  a  moderate  alarm;  tell 
him  to  moderately  rescue  his  wife  from  the  hands  of  the 
ravisher;  tell  the  mother  to  gradually  extricate  her  babe 


234  The    Cry   for    Justice 

from  the  fire  into  wiiich  it  has  fallen — but  urge  me  not 
to  use  moderation  in  a  cause  like  the  present.  I  am  in 
earnest — I  will  not  equivocate — I  will  not  excuse — I  will 
not  retreat  a  single  inch — and  I  will  be  heard.  The 
apathy  of  the  people  is  enough  to  make  every  statue 
leap  from  its  pedestal  and  hasten  the  resurrection  of 
the  dead. 


aZBorWns  and  tEaKinu 

{From  the  lAncoln-Douglas  debates,  1858) 
By  Abraham  Lincoln 

THAT  is  the  real  issue  that  will  continue  in  this  coun- 
try when  these  poor  tongues  of  Judge  Douglas  and 
myself  shall  be  silent.  It  is  the  eternal  struggle  between 
these  two  principles,  right  and  wrong,  throughout  the 
world.  They  are  the  two  principles  that  have  stood 
face  to  face  from  the  beginning  of  time.  The  one  is  the 
common  right  of  humanity,  the  other  the  divine  right 
of  kings.  It  is  the  same  principle  in  whatever  shape  it 
develops  itself.  It  is  the  same  spirit  that  says  "you 
toil  and  work  and  earn  bread  and  I'll  eat  it." 


SitiUt^^  to  Ptf^iamt  Eincoln 

By  the  International  Workingmen's  Association 
{Drafted  by  Karl  Marx) 

WHEN  an  oligarchy  of  three  hundred  thousand 
slaveholders,  for  the  first  time  in  the  annals  of 
the  world,  dared  to  inscribe  "Slavery"  on  the  banner 
of  armed  revolt;    when  on  the  very  spot  where  hardly 


Revolt  235 

a  century  ago  the  idea  of  one  great  democratic  republic 
had  first  sprung  up,  whence  the  first  declaration  of  the 
Rights  of  Man  was  issued,  and  the  first  impulse  given 
to  the  European  revolution  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
when  on  that  very  spot  the  counter-revolution  cynically 
proclaimed  property  in  man  to  be  "the  corner-stone  of 
the  new  edifice" — ^then  the  working  classes  of  Europe 
xmderstood  at  once  that  the  slaveholders'  rebellion  was 
to  sound  the  tocsin  for  a  general  holy  war  of  property 
against  labor;  and  that  for  the  men  of  labor,  with  their 
hopes  for  the  future,  even  their  past  conquests  were  at 
stake  in  that  tremendous  conflict  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Atlantic. 


Boston  l^gmn 

By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

(American  essayist,  philosopher  and  poet.  The  two  stanzas 
following,  which  may  be  said  to  smn  up  the  revolutionary  view  of 
the  subject  of  "confiscation,"  are  taken  from  a  poem  read  in  Boston 
on  Emancipation  day,  January  1,  1863) 

TODAY  unbind  the  captive. 
So  only  are  ye  imbound; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust. 
Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner 

And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim. 
Who  is  the  owner?     The  slave  is  owner, 

And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 


S36  The    Cry   for    Justice 

JBattIt  ^gmn  of  tfie  €Untdt  Effaolution  (1912) 

{From  the  Chinese) 

FREEDOM,  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  of  Heaven, 
United  to  Peace,  thou  wilt  work  on  this  earth  ten 
thousand  wonderful  new  things. 

Grave  as  a  spirit,  great  as  a  giant  rising  to  the  very  skies. 
With  the  clouds  for  a  chariot  and  the  wind  for  a  steed, 
Come,  come  to  reign  over  the  earth! 

For  the  sake  of  the  black  hell  of  our  slavery, 
Come,  enlighten  us  with  a  ray  of  thy  sun!  .  .  . 

In  this  century  we  are  working  to  open  a  new  age. 
In  this  century,  with  one  voice,  all  virile  men 
Are  calling  for  a  new  making  of  heaven  and  earth. 

Hin-Yun,  our  ancestor,  guide  us! 
Spirit  of  Freedom,  come  and  protect  us! 


^H^t  latbolutfon 

By  Richard  Wagner 

(It  is  not  generally  recalled  that  the  composer  of  the  world's 
greatest  music-dramas,  1813-1883,  was  an  active  revolutionist, 
who  took  part  in  street  fighting  in  the  German  Revolution  of  1848, 
and  escaped  a  long  imprisonment  only  by  flight.  The  following  is 
from  his  contributions  to  the  Dresden  Volksbldtter) 

T  AM  the  secret  of  perpetual  youth,  the  everlasting 
^  creator  of  life;  where  I  am  not,  death  rages.  I  am 
the  comfort,  the  hope,  the  dream  of  the  oppressed.  I 
destroy  what  exists;   but  from  the  rock  whereon  I  light 


Revolt  237 

new  life  begins  to  flow.  I  come  to  you  to  break  all 
chains  which  bear  you  down;  to  free  you  from  the 
embrace  of  death,  and  instill  a  new  life  into  your  veins. 
All  that  exists  must  perish;  that  is  the  eternal  condition 
of  life,  and  I  the  all-destroying  fulfil  that  law  to  create 
a  fresh,  new  existence.  I  will  renovate  to  the  very  founda- 
tions the  order  of  things  in  which  you  live,  for  it  is  the 
offspring  of  sin,  whose  blossom  is  misery  and  whose  fruit 
is  crime.  The  grain  is  ripe,  and  I  am  the  reaper.  I  will 
dissipate  every  delusion  which  has  mastery  over  the 
hiunan  race.  I  will  destroy  the  authority  of  the  one 
over  the  many;  of  the  lifeless  over  the  living;  of  the 
material  over  the  spiritual.  I  will  break  into  pieces  the 
authority  of  the  great;  of  the  law  of  property.  Ijet  the 
will  of  each  be  master  of  mankind,  one's  own  strength 
be  one's  one  property,  for  the  freeman  is  the  sacred  man, 
and  there  is  nothing  sublimer  than  he.  .  .  . 

I  will  destroy  the  existing  order  of  things  which  divides 
one  himaanity  into  hostile  peoples,  into  strong  and  weak, 
into  privileged  and  outlawed,  into  rich  -and  poor;  for 
that  makes  unfortimate  creatures  of  one  and  all.  I  will 
destroy  the  order  of  things  which  makes  millions  the  slaves 
of  the  few,  and  those  few  the  slaves  of  their  own  power, 
of  their  own  wealth.  I  will  destroy  the  order  of  things 
which  severs  enjoyment  from  labor,  which  turns  labor 
into  a  burden  and  enjoyment  into  a  vice,  which  makes 
one  man  miserable  through  want  and  another  miserable 
through  super-abimdance.  I  will  destroy  the  order  of 
things  which  consimies  the  vigor  of  manhood  in  the 
service  of  the  dead,  of  inert  matter,  which  sustains  one 
part  of  mankind  in  idleness  or  useless  activity,  which 
forces  thousands  to  devote  their  sturdy  youth  to  the 
indolent  pursuits  of  soldiery,  officialism,  speculation  and 


S38  The    Cry   for    Justice 

usury,  and  the  maintenance  of  such  Uke  despicable  con- 
ditions, while  the  other  half,  by  excessive  exertion  and 
sacrifice  of  all  the  enjoyment  of  life,  bears  the  burden 
of  the  whole  infamous  structure.  I  will  destroy  even 
the  very  memory  and  trace  of  this  delirious  order  of 
things  which,  pieced  together  out  of  force,  falsehood, 
trouble,  tears,  sorrow,  suffering,  need,  deceit,  hypocrisy 
and  crime,  is  shut  up  in  its  own  reeking  atmosphere, 
and  never  receives  a  breath  of  pure  air,  to  which  no  ray 
of  pure  joy  ever  penetrates.  .  .  . 

Arise,  then,  ye  people  of  the  earth,  arise,  ye  sorrow- 
stricken  and  oppressed.  Ye,  also,  who  vainly  struggle  to 
clothe  the  inner  desolation  of  your  hearts,  with  the  tran- 
sient glory  of  riches,  arise!  Come  and  follow  in  my  track 
with  the  joyful  crowd,  for  I  know  not  how  to  make  distinc- 
tion between  those  who  follow  me.  There  are  but  two 
peoples  from  henceforth  on  earth — ^the  one  which  follows 
me,  and  the  one  which  resists  me.  The  one  I  will  lead  to 
happiness,  but  the  other  I  will  crush  in  my  progress.  For 
I  am  the  Revolution,  I  am  the  new  creating  force.  I  am 
the  divinity  which  discerns  all  life,  which  embraces, 
revives,  and  rewards. 


M 

H>' 

^^ 

y-1 

W 

- 

-/^ 

R 

'7j 

Revolt  239 

By  John  G.  Neihardt 
(Western  poet  and  novelist,  born  1881) 

TREMBLE  before  your  chattels, 
Lords  of  the  scheme  of  things! 
Fighters  of  all  earth's  battles, 
Ours  is  the  might  of  kings! 
Guided  by  seers  and  sages, 

The  world's  heart-beat  for  a  drum, 
Snapping  the  chains  of  ages. 
Out  of  the  night  we  come! 

Lend  us  no  ear  that  pities! 

Offer  no  almoner's  hand! 
Alms  for  the  builders  of  cities! 

When  will  you  understand? 
Down  Tft-ith  your  pride  of  birth 

And  your  golden  gods  of  trade! 
A  man  is  worth  to  his  mother,  Earth, 

All  that  a  man  has  made! 

We  are  the  workers  and  makers! 

We  are  no  longer  dumb! 
Tremble,  0  Shirkers  and  Takers! 

Sweeping  the  earth — we  come! 
Ranked  in  the  world-wide  dawn. 

Marching  into  the  day! 
The  night  is  gone  and  the  sword  is  drawn 

And  the  scabbard  is  thrown  awayf 


2JfO  The    Cry   for    Justice 

{From  "  Woman  and  Lain  r") 
By  Olive  Scheeinek 

(South  African  novelist,  bom  1859.  In  the  preface  to  this  book 
one  learns  that  it  is  only  a  faint  sketch  from  memory  of  part  of  a 
great  work,  the  manuscript  of  which  was  destroyed  during  the  Boer 
war) 

THROWN  into  strict  logical  form,  our  demand  is  this: 
We  do  not  ask  that  the  wheels  of  time  should  reverse 
themselves,  or  the  stream  of  life  flow  backward.  We  do 
not  ask.  that  our  ancient  spinning-wheels  be  again  resus- 
citated and  placed  in  out  hands;  we  do  not  demand  that 
our  old  grindstones  and  hoes  be  returned  to  us,  or  that 
man  should  again  betake  himself  entirely  to  his  ancient 
province  of  war  and  the  chase,  leaving  to  us  all  domestic 
and  civil  labor.  We  do  not  even  demand  that  society 
shall  immediately  so  reconstruct  itself  that  every  woman 
may  be  again  a  childbearer  (deep  and  overmastering  as 
lies  the  hunger  for  motherhood  in  every  virile  woman's 
heart!);  neither  do  we  demand  that  the  children  we  bear 
shall  again  be  put  exclusively  into  our  hands  to  train. 
This,  we  know,  cannot  be.  The  past  material  conditions 
of  life  have  gone  for  ever;  no  will  of  man  can  recall  them. 
But  this  is  our  demand:  We  demand  that,  in  that  strange 
new  world  that  is  arising  alike  upon  the  man  and  the 
woman,  where  nothing  is  as  it  was,  and  all  things  are 
assimiing  new  shapes  and  relations,  that  in  this  new  world 
we  also  shall  have  our  share  of  honored  and  socially  use- 
ful human  toil,  our  full  half  of  the  labor  of  the  Children 
of  Woman.  We  demand  nothing  more  than  this,  and  will 
take  nothing  less.     This  is  our  "WOMAN'S  RIGHT!" 


Revolt  241 

EatJte0  in  KfftcIUon 

By  Abigail  Adams  1 

(Wife  of  one  president  of  the  United  States,  and  mother  of  another. 

From  a  letter  to  her  husband  written  in  1774,  during  the 

session  of  the  &st  Continental  Congress) 

T   LONG  to  hear  that  you  have  declared  an  independency. 

■*■  And  in  the  new  code  of  laws  which  I  suppose  it  will 
be  necessary  for  you  to  make,  I  desire  you  would  remem- 
ber the  ladies,  and  be  more  generous  and  favorable  to 
them  than  your  ancestors.  ...  If  particular  care  and 
attention  is  not  paid  to  the  ladies,  we  are  determined  to 
foment  a  rebellion,  and  will  not  hold  ourselves  boimd  by 
any  laws  in  which  we  have  no  voice  or  representation.       ' 


SI  2Doir0  ^OVL0t 

By  Henrik  Ibsen 

(Norwegian  dramatist,  1828-1906.     A  play  which  may  be  called 
the  source  of  the  modern  Feminist  movement.     In  the  fol- 
lowing scene  a  young  wife  announces  her  revolt) 

NORA: — ^While  I  was  at  home  with  father,  he  used  to 
tell  me  his  opinions,  and  I  held  the  same  opinions. 
If  I  had  others,  I  concealed  them,  because  he  wouldn't 
have  liked  it.  He  used  to  call  me  his  doll-child,  and 
played  with  me  as  I  played  with  my  dolls.  Then  I  came 
to  live  in  your  house — 

Helmer: — What    an   expression    to   use   about     our 
marriage ! 

Nora   (undisturbed): — I  mean  I  passed  from  father's 
hands  into  yours.     You  settled  everything  according  to 
16 


2J+2  The    Cry   for    Justice 

your  taste;  and  I  got  the  same  tastes  as  you;  or  I  pre- 
'  tended  to — I  don't  know  which — both  ways,  perhaps. 
When  I  look  back  on  it  now,  I  seem  to  have  been  living 
here  like  a  beggar,  from  hand  to  mouth.  I  lived  by 
performing  tricks  for  you,  Torvald.  But  you  would 
have  it  so.  You  and  father  have  done  me  a  great  wrong. 
It  is  your  fault  that  my  life  has  been  wasted. 

Helmer: — Why,  Nora,  how  unreasonable  and  ungrate- 
ful you  are.     Haven't  you  been  happy  here? 

Nora: — No,  only  merry.  And  you  have  always  been 
so  kind  to  me.  But  your  house  has  been  nothing  but  a 
play-room.  Here  I  have  been  your  doll-wife,  just  as  at 
home  I  used  to  be  papa's  doll-child.  And  the  children,  in 
their  turn,  have  been  my  dolls.  I  thought  it  fun  when 
you  played  with  me,  just  as  the  children  did  when  I 
played  with  them.  That  has  been  our  marriage, 
Torvald.  .  .  .      And  that  is  why  I  am  now  leaving  you! 

Helmer  (jumping  up): — What — do  you  mean  to  say — 

Nora: — I  must  stand  quite  alone,  to  know  myself  and 
my  surroundings;   so  I  can't  stay  with  you. 

Helmer: — Nora!  Nora! 

Nora: — I  am  going  at  once.  Christina  will  take  me 
for  tonight. 

Helmer: — You  are  mad!  I  shall  not  allow  it.  I  for- 
bid it. 

Nora: — It  is  no  use  your  forbidding  me  anything  now. 
I  shall  take  with  me  what  belongs  to  me.  From  you 
I  will  accept  nothing,  either  now  or  afterwards.  .  .  . 

Helmer: — To  forsake  your  home,  your  husband,  and 
your  children!  You  don't  consider  what  the  world 
will  say. 

Nora  : — I  can  pay  no  heed  to  that.  I  only  know  what 
I  must  do. 


Revolt  243 

Helmer: — It  is  exasperating!  Can  you  forsake  your 
holiest  duties  in  this  world? 

Nora: — What  do  you  call  my  holiest  duties? 

Helmer  ; — Do  you  ask  me  that?  Your  duties  to  your 
husband  and  your  children. 

Nora: — I  have  other  duties  equally  sacred. 

Helmer: — Impossible!     What  duties  do  you  mean? 

Nora: — My  duties  towards  myself. 

Helmer: — Before  all  else  you  are  a  wife  and  a  mother. 

Nora: — That  I  no  longer  believe.  I  think  that  before 
all  else  I  am  a  human  being,  just  as  much  as  you  are — 
or  at  least  I  will  try  to  become  one. 


a  (Bid  mtilt'Ht&titt 

By  Florence  Kiper  Frank 
(American  poetess,  born  1886) 

A  WHITE-FACED,  stubborn  little  thing 
Whose  years  are  not  quite  twenty  years, 
Eyes  steely  now  and  done  with  tears, 
Mouth  scornful  of  its  suffering — 

The  young  mouth! — body  virginal 
Beneath  the  cheap,  ill-fitting  suit, 

A  bearing  quaintly  resolute, 
A  flowering  hat,  satirical. 

A  soul  that  steps  to  the  sound  of  the  fife 

And  banners  waving  red  to  war. 
Mystical,  knowing  scarce  wherefore — 

A  Joan  in  a  modern  strife. 


^44  ^he    Cry   for    Justice 

Comratre  Wttta* 

By  Albert  Edwards  ,^ 

(The  story  of  an  East  Side  sweat-shop  worker  who  becomes  a 

strike-leader.    The  present  scene  describes  a  meeting 

in  Carnegie  Hall) 

'W'ETTA  stood  there  alone,  the  blood  mounting  to  her 
-'■  cheeks,  looking  more  and  more  like  an  orchid,  and 
waited  for  the  storm  to  pass. 

"I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  this  strike,"  she  said 
when  she  could  make  herself  heard.  "It's  over.  I  want 
to  tell  you  about  the  next  one — and  the  next.  I  wish 
very  much  I  could  make  you  vmderstand  about  the 
strikes  that  are  coming.  .  .  . 

"Perhaps  there's  some  of  you  never  thought  much 
about  strikes  till  now.  Well.  There's  been  strikes  all 
the  time.  I  don't  believe  there's  ever  been  a  year  when 
there  wasn't  dozens  here  in  New  York.  When  we  began, 
the  skirt-finishers  was  out.  They  lost  their  strike.  They 
went  hungry  just  the  way  we  did,  but  nobody  helped 
them.  And  they're  worse  now  than  ever.  There  ain't 
no  difference  between  one  strike  and  another.  Perhaps 
they  are  striking  for  more  pay  or  recognition  or  closed 
shops.  But  the  next  strike'll  be  just  like  ours.  It'll 
be  people  fighting  so  they  won't  be  so  much  slaves  like 
they  was  before. 

"The  Chairman  said  perhaps  I'd  tell  you  about  my 
experience.  There  ain't  nothing  to  tell  except  everybody 
has  been  awful  kind  to  me.  It's  fine  to  have  people  so 
kind  to  me.  But  I'd  rather  if  they'd  try  to  understand 
what  this  strike  business  means  to  all  of  us  workers — 
this  strike  we've  won  and  the  ones  that  are  coming.  .  .  . 

*  By  permission  of  the  MacnuHan  Co. 


Revolt  245 

"I  come  out  of  the  workhouse  today,  and  they  tell 
me  a  lady  wants  to  give  me  money  to  study,  she  wants 
to  have  me  go  to  college  Uke  I  was  a  rich  girl.  It's  very 
kind.  I  want  to  study.  I  ain't  been  to  school  none 
since  I  was  fifteen.  I  guess  I  can't  even  talk  English 
very  good.  I'd  hke  to  go  to  college.  And  I  used  to 
see  pictures  in  the  papers  of  beautiful  rich  women,  and 
of  course  it  would  be  fine  to  have  clothes  like  that.  But 
being  in  a  strike,  seeing  all  the  people  suffer,  seeing  all 
the  cruelty — ^it  makes  things  look  different. 

"The  Chairman  told  you  something  out  of  the  Chris- 
tian Bible.  Well,  we  Jews  have  got  a  story  too — perhaps 
it's  in  your  Bible — about  Moses  and  his  people  in  Egypt. 
He'd  been  brought  up  by  a  rich  Egyptian  lady — a  princess 
— ^just  like  he  was  her  son.  But  as  long  as  he  tried  to 
be  an  Egyptian  he  wasn't  no  good.  And  God  spoke  to 
him  one  day  out  of  a  bush  on  fire.  I  don't  remember 
just  the  words  of  the  story,  but  God  said:  'Moses,  you're 
a  Jew.  You  ain't  got  no  business  with  the  Egj^ptians. 
Take  off  those  fine  clothes  and  go  back  to  your  own 
people  and  help  them  escape  from  bondage.'  Well.  Of 
course,  I  ain't  like  Moses,  and  God  has  never  talked 
to  me.  But  it  seems  to  me  sort  of  as  if — during  this 
strike — I'd  seen  a  blazing  bush.  Anyhow  I've  seen 
my  people  in  bondage.  And  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
college  and  be  a  lady,  I  guess  the  land  princess  couldn't 
understand  why  Moses  wanted  to  be  a  poor  Jew  instead 
of  a  rich  Egj'ptian.  But  if  you  can  understand,  if  you 
can  understand  why  I'm  going  to  stay  with  my  own 
people,  you'll  understand  all  I've  been  trying  to  say. 

"We're  a  people  in  bondage.  There's  lots  of  people 
who's  kind  to  us.  I  guess  the  princess  wasn't  the  only 
Egyptian  lady  that  was  kind  to  the  Jews.     But  kindness 


2J+6  The    Cry   for    Justice 

ain't  what  people  want  who  are  in  bondage.  Kindness 
won't  never  make  us  free.  And  God  don't  send  any 
more  prophets  nowadays.  We've  got  to  escape  all  by 
ourselves.  And  when  you  read  in  the  papers  that  there's 
a  strike — it  don't  matter  whether  it's  street-car  con- 
ductors or  lace-makers,  whether  it's  Eyetalians  or  Polacks 
or  Jews  or  Americans,  whether  it's  here  or  in  Chicago — 
it's  my  People — the  People  in  Bondage  who  are  starting 
out  for  the  Promised  Land." 

She  stopped  a  moment,  and  a  strange  look  came  over 
her  face — a  look  of  communication  with  some  distant 
spirit.  When  she  spoke  again,  her  words  were  unintel- 
hgible  to  most  of  the  audience.  Some  of  the  Jewish 
vest-makers  understood.  And  the  Rev.  Dunham  Den- 
ning, who  was  a  famous  scholar,  understood.  But  even 
those  who  did  not  were  held  spellbound  by  the  swinging 
sonorous  cadence.     She  stopped  abruptly. 

"It's  Hebrew,"  she  explained.  "It's  what  my  father 
taught  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  It's  about  the  Prom-- 
ised  Land — I  can't  say  it  in  good  English — I " 

"Unless  I've  forgotten  my  Hebrew,"  the  Reverend 
Chairman  said,  stepping  forward,  "Miss  Rayefsky  has 
been  repeating  God's  words  to  Moses  as  recorded  in  the 
third  chapter  of  Exodus.    I  think  it's  the  seventh  verse: — 

"  'And  the  Lord  said,  I  have  surely  seen  the  affliction 
of  my  people  which  are  in  Egypt,  and  have  heard  their 
cry  by  reason  of  their  taskmasters;  for  I  know  their 
sorrows; 

"  'And  I  am  come  down  to  deliver  them  out  of  the 
hand  of  the  Egyptians  and  to  bring  them  up  out  of  that 
land  unto  a  good  land  and  a  large,  unto  a  land  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey.'  " 

"Yes.  That's  it,"  Yetta  said.  "Well,  that's  what 
strikes  mean.     We're  fighting  for  the  old  promises." 


Revolt  247 

"ilJcto"  SflJomm 

By  Olive  Schreiner 
(See  page  240) 

WE  are  not  new!  If  you  would  understand  us,  go 
back  two  thousand  years,  and  study  our  descent; 
our  breed  is  our  explanation.  We  are  the  daughters  of 
our  fathers  as  well  as  our  mothers.  In  our  dreams  we 
still  hear  the  clash  of  the  shields  of  our  forebears,  as  they 
struck  them  together  before  battle  and  raised  the  shout 
of  "Freedom!"  In  our  dreams  it  is  with  us  still,  and 
when  we  wake  it  breaks  from  our  own  lips.  We  are  the 
daughters  of  these  men. 


T5ua^  anu  %o&zd 

By  James  Oppenheim 

(In  a  parade  of  the  strikers  of  Lawrence,  Mass.,  some  young  girls 
carried  a  banner  inscribed,  "We  want  Bread,  and  Roses  too!") 

AS  we  come  marching,  marching,  in  the  beauty  of  the 
■        day, 
A  million  darkened  kitchens,  a  thousand  mill-lofts  gray 
Are  touched  with  all  the  radiance  that  a  sudden  sun  dis- 
closes. 
For  the  people  hear  us  singing,  "Bread  and  Roses,  Bread 
and  Roses." 

As  we  come  marching,  marching,  we  battle,  too,  for  men — 
For  they  are  women's  children  and  we  mother  them  again. 
Our  lives  shall  not  be  sweated  from  birth  until  life  closes — 
Hearts  starve  as  well  as  bodies:  Give  us  Bread,  but  give 
us  Roses! 


us  The    Cry   for    Justice 

As  we  come  marching,   marching,  unnmnbered  women 

dead 
Go  crying  through  our  singing  their  ancient  song  of  Bread; 
Small   art  and   love  and  beauty  their  drudging  spirits 

knew — 
Yes,  it  is  bread  we  fight  for — but  we  fight  for  Roses,  too. 

As  we  come  marching,  marching,  we  bring  the  Greater 

Days — 
The  rising  of  the  women  means  the  rising  of  the  race — 
No  more  the  drudge  and  idler — ten  that  toil  where  one 

reposes — 
But  a  sharing  of  life's  glories:    Bread  and  Roses,  Bread 

and  Roses! 


%flt  (15reat  ^ttiU  *  ' 

{From  "Happy  Humanity") 

By  Frederik  van  Eeden 

(The  Dutch  physician,  poet  and  novelist  has  here  told  for  American 

readers  a  personal  experience  in  the  labor  struggles 

of  his  own  country) 

ABOUT  forty  of  us  were  sent  as  delegates  to  different 
'  towns  to  lead  and  encourage  the  strikers  there. 
The  password  was  given  and  a  date  and  hour  secretly 
appointed.  On  Monday  morning,  the  sixth  of  April, 
1903,  no  train  was  to  run  on  any  railway  in  the  Nether- 
lands. 

Sunday  evening  I  set  out,  as  one  of  the  forty  delegates, 
on  the  warpath.     I  took  leave  of  my  family,  filled  a  suit- 

*  By  permiasioQ  of  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


Revolt  249 

case  with  pamphlets  and  fly-leaves,  and  arrived  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  at  the  Uttle  town  of  Amersfoort,  an 
important  railway  junction,  to  bring  my  message  from 
headquarters  that  a  strike  would  be  declared  that  night 
in  the  whole  country.  Expecting  the  Government  to 
be  very  active  and  energetic  and  not  unlikely  to  arrest 
me,  I  took  an  assimied  name,  and  was  dressed  like  a 
laborer.  .  .  . 

I  stayed  a  week  in  that  little  town,  living  in  the 
houses  of  the  strikers,  sharing  their  meals  and  their  hours 
of  suspense  and  anxiety.  There  was  a  dark,  dingy 
meeting-room  where  they  all  preferred  to  gather,  rather 
than  stay  at  home.  The  women  also  regularly  attended 
these  meetings,  sometimes  bringing  their  children,  and 
they  all  sought  the  comfort  of  being  in  company,  talking 
of  hopes  and  fears,  cheering  each  other  up  by  songs,  and 
trying  to  raise  each  other's  spirits  during  the  long  days 
of  inaction.  I  addressed  them,  three  or  four  times  a 
day,  trying  to  give  them  soimd  notions  on  social  condi- 
tions and  preparing  them  for  the  defeat  which  I  soon 
knew  to  be  inevitable.  I  may  say,  however,  that,  though 
I  was  of  all  the  forty  delegates  the  least  hopeful  of  ulti- 
mate success,  my  little  party  was  the  last  to  surrender 
and  showed  the  smallest  percentage  of  fugitives. 

I  saw  in  those  days  of  strife  that  of  the  two  contending 
parties,  the  stronger,  the  victorious  one,  was  by  far  the 
least  sympathetic  in  its  moral  attitude  and  methods. 
The  strikers  were  pathetically  stupid  and  ignorant  about 
the  strength  of  their  opponents  and  their  own  weakness. 
If  they  had  unexpectedly  gained  a  complete  victory  they 
would  have  been  utterly  unable  to  use  it.  If  the  political 
power  had  shifted  from  the  hands  of  the  Government 
to  those  of  the  leading  staff  of  that  general  strike,  the 


250  The    Cry   for    Justice 

result  would  have  been  a  terrible  confusion.  There  was 
no  mind  strong  enough,  no  hand  firm  enough  among  them 
to  rule  and  reorganize  that  mass  of  workers,  unaccustomed 
to  freedom,  imtrained  to  self-control,  unable  to  work 
without  severe  authority  and  discipline.  Yet  the  feel- 
ings and  motives  of  that  multitude  were  fair  and  just — 
they  showed  a  chivalry,  a  generosity,  an  idealism  and 
an  enthusiasm  with  which  the  low  methods  of  their  power- 
ful opponents  contrasted  painfully. 

Every  striker  had  to  fight  his  own  fight  at  home. 
Every  evening  he  had  to  face  the  worn  and  anxious  face 
of  his  wife,  the  sight  of  his  children  in  danger  of  starva- 
tion and  misery.  He  had  to  notice  the  hidden  tears  of 
the  woman,  or  to  answer  her  doubts  and  reproaches,  with 
a  mind  itself  far  from  confident.  He  had  to  fight  in 
his  own  heart  the  egotistical  inclination  to  save  himself 
and  give  up  what  he  felt  to  be  his  best  sentiment,  solidar- 
ity, the  faith  towards  his  comrades. 

I  believe  no  feeling  man  of  the  leisure  class  could  have 
gone  through  a  week  in  those  surroundings  and  taken 
part  in  a  struggle  like  this  without  acquiring  a  different 
conception  of  the  ethics  of  socialism  and  class  war. 

For  on  the  other  side  there  were  the  Government,  the 
companies,  the  defendants  of  existing  order,  powerful  by 
their  wealth,  by  their  routine,  by  their  experience,  and 
supported  by  the  servility  of  the  great  public  and  the 
army.  They  had  not  to  face  any  real  danger  (the  strikers 
showed  no  inclination  to  deeds  of  Adolence),  and  the  arms 
they  used  were  intimidation  and  bribery.  The  only 
thing  for  them  to  do  was  to  demorahze  the  striker,  to 
make  him  an  egoist,  a  coward,  a  traitor  to  his  comrades. 
And  this  was  done  quietly  and  successfully. 

Demoralizing  the  enemy  may  be  the  lawful  object  of 


Revolt  251 

every  war — the  unavoidable  evil  to  prevent  a  greater 
wrong;  yet  in  this  case,  where  the  method  of  corruption 
could  be  used  only  on  one  side,  it  showed  the  ugly  char- 
acter of  the  conflict.  This  was  no  fair  battle  with  com- 
mon moral  rules  of  chivalry  and  generosity;  it  was  a 
pitiful  and  hopeless  struggle  between  a  weak  slave  and 
a  strong  usurper,  between  an  ill-treated,  revolting  child 
and  a  brutal  oppressor,  who  cared  only  for  the  restora- 
tion of  his  authority,  not  for  the  morals  of  the  child. 


^otoec  m  a  l^instiom  W^tn  ^t  gatg  €)btaituli  it 

{From  "Las  Siete  Partidas") 

By  Alfonso  the  Wise 

(A  Spanish  king  of  great  learning;   1226-1284) 

A  TYRANT  doth  signify  a  cruel  lord,  who,  by  force 
^*-  or  by  craft,  or  by  treachery,  hath  obtained  power 
over  any  realm  or  country;  and  such  men  be  of  such 
nature,  that  when  once  they  have  grown  strong  in  the 
land,  they  love  rather  to  work  their  own  profit,  though 
it  be  to  the  harm  of  the  land,  than  the  common  profit 
of  all,  for  they  always  live  in  an  ill  fear  of  losing  it.  And 
that  they  may  be  able  to  fulfil  this  their  purpose  unen- 
cumbered, the  wise  of  old  have  said  that  they  use  their 
power  against  the  people  in  three  manners.  The  first  is, 
that  they  strive  that  those  under  their  mastery  be  ever 
ignorant  and  timorous,  because,  when  they  be  SHch,  they 
may  not  be  bold  to  rise  against  them,  nor  to  resist  their 
wills;  and  the  second  is,  that  their  victims  be  not  kindly 
and  united  among  themselves,  in  such  wise  that  they 


252  The    Cry   for    Justice 

trust  not  one  another,  for  while  they  hve  in  disagreement, 
they  shall  not  dare  to  make  any  discourse  against  their 
lord,  for  fear  faith  and  secrecy  should  not  be  kept  among 
themselves;  and  the  third  way  is,  that  they  strive  to  make 
them  poor,  and  to  put  them  upon  great  imdertakings, 
which  they  can  never  finish,  whereby  they  may  have  so 
much  harm  that  it  may  never  come  into  their  hearts 
to  devise  anything  against  their  ruler.  And  above  all 
this,  have  tyrants  ever  striven  to  make  spoil  of  the  strong 
and  to  destroy  the  wise;  and  have  forbidden  fellowship 
and  assemblies  of  men  in  their  land,  and  striven  always 
to  know  what  men  said  or  did;  and  do  trust  their  counsel 
and  the  guard  of  their  person  rather  to  foreigners,  who 
will  serve  at  their  will,  than  to  them  of  the  land,  who 
serve  from  oppression. 


Sin  flDpm  %tUtt  to  tfiz  (Emplogersf 

By  "  A.E."  (George  W.  Russell) 

(This  remarkable  piece  of  eloquence,  published  in  the  Dublia 
Times  at  the  time  of  the  great  strike  of  1913,  is  said  to  have  com- 
pletely revolutionized  public  opinion  on  the  question.  The  author, 
born  1867,  is  one  of  Ireland's  greatest  poets,  and  an  ardent  advocate 
of  agricultural  co  operation) 

OiRS: — I  address  this  warning  to  you,  the  aristocracy 
^  of  industry  in  this  city,  because,  like  all  aristocracies, 
you  tend  to  grow  blind  in  long  authority,  and  to  be 
unaware  that  you  and  your  class  and  its  every  action 
are  being  considered  and  judged  day  by  day  by  those 
who  have  power  to  shake  or  overturn  the  whole  social 
order,  and  whose  restlessness  in  poverty  today  is  making 
our  industrial  civilization  stir  like  a  quaking  bog.     You 


Revolt  263 

do  not  seem  to  realize  that  your  assumption  that  you 
are  answerable  to  yourselves  alone  for  your  actions  in 
the  industries  you  control  is  one  that  becomes  less  and 
less  tolerable  in  a  world  so  crowded  with  necessitous  life. 
Some  of  you  have  helped  Irish  farmers  to  upset  a  landed 
aristocracy  in  the  island,  an  aristocracy  richer  and  more 
powerful  in  its  sphere  than  you  are  in  yours,  with  its 
roots  deep  in  history.  They,  too,  as  a  class,  though  not 
all  of  them,  were  scornful  or  neglectful  of  the  workers 
in  the  industry  by  which  they  profited;  and  to  many 
who  knew  them  in  their  pride  of  place  and  thought  them 
all-powerful  they  are  already  becoming  a  memory,  the 
good  disappearing  with  the  bad.  If  they  had  done  their 
duty  by  those  from  whose  labor  came  their  wealth,  they 
might  have  continued  unquestioned  in  power  and  prestige 
for  centuries  to  come.  The  relation  of  landlord  and 
tenant  is  not  an  ideal  one,  but  any  relations  in  a  social 
order  will  endure  if  there  is  infused  into  them  some  of 
that  spirit  of  human  sympathy  which  qualifies  life  for 
inmiortality.  Despotisms  endure  while  they  are  benevo- 
lent, and  aristocracies  while  "noblesse  oblige"  is  not  a 
phrase  to  be  referred  to  with  a  cynical  smile.  Even  an 
oligarchy  might  be  permanent  if  the  spirit  of  hmnan 
kindness,  which-  harmonizes  all  things  otherwise  incom- 
patible, were  present.  .  .  . 

Those  who  have  economic  power  have  civic  power 
also,  yet  you  have  not  used  the  power  that  was  yours  to 
right  what  was  wrong  in  the  evil  administration  of  this 
city.  You  have  allowed  the  poor  to  be  herded  together 
so  that  one  thinks  of  certain  places  in  Dublin  as  of  a 
pestilence.  There  are  twenty  thousand  rooms,  in  each 
of  which  live  entire  families,  and  sometimes  more,  where 
no  functions  of  the  body  can  be  concealed,  and  delicacy 


^54  The    Cry   for    Justice 

and  modesty  are  creatures  that  are  stifled  ere  they  are 
born.  The  obvious  duty  of  you  in  regard  to  these  things 
you  might  have  left  undone,  and  it  be  imputed  to  ignor- 
ance or  forgetfulness;  but  your  collective  and  conscious 
action  as  a  class  in  the  present  labor  dispute  has  revealed 
you  to  the  world  in  so  malign  an  aspect  that  the  mirror 
must  be  held  up  to  you,  so  that  you  may  see  yourself 
as  every  humane  person  sees  you. 

The  conception  of  yourselves  as  altogether  virtuous 
and  wronged  is,  I  assure  you,  not  at  all  the  one  which 
onlookers  hold  of  you.  .  .  .  The  representatives  of  labor 
unions  in  Great  Britain  met  you,  and  you  made  of  them 
a  preposterous,  an  impossible  demand,  and  because  they 
would  not  accede  to  it  you  closed  the  Conference;  you 
refused  to  meet  them  further;  you  assumed  that  no  other 
guarantees  than  those  you  asked  were  possible,  and  you 
determined  dehberately,  in  cold  anger,  to  starve  out  one- 
third  of  the  population  of  this  city,  to  break  the  man- 
hood of  the  men  by  the  sight  of  the  suffering  of  their 
wives  and  the  hunger  of  their  children.  We  read  in  the 
Dark  Ages  of  the  rack  and  thmnbscrew.  But  these 
iniquities  were  hidden  and  concealed  from  the  knowledge 
of  men  in  dungeons  and  torture-chambers.  Even  in  the 
Dark  Ages  humanity  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  such 
suffering,  and  it  learnt  of  such  misuse  of  power  by  slow 
degrees,  through  rmnor,  and  when  it  was  certain  it  razed 
its  Bastilles  to  their  foundations.  It  remained  for  the 
twentieth  century  and  the  capital  city  of  Ireland  to  see 
an  oligarchy  of  four  hundred  masters  deciding  openly 
upon  starving  one  hundred  thousand  people,  and  refusing 
to  consider  any  solution  except  that  fixed  by  their  pride. 
You,  masters,  asked  men  to  do  that  which  masters  of 
.labor  in  any  other  city  in  these  islands  had  not  dared 


Revolt  255 

to  do.  You  insolently  demanded  of  these  men  who  were 
members  of  a  trade  union  that  they  should  resign  from 
that  imion;  and  from  those  who  were  not  members  you 
insisted  on  a  vow  that  they  would  never  join  it. 

Your  insolence  and  ignorance  of  the  rights  conceded 
to  workers  imiversally  in  the  modern  world  were  incred- 
ible, and  as  great  as  your  inhumanity.  If  you  had 
between  you  collectively  a  portion  of  human  soul  as  large 
as  a  three-penny  bit,  you  would  have  sat  night  and  day 
with  the  representatives  of  labor,  trying  this  or  that 
solution  of  the  trouble,  mindful  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, who  at  least  were  innocent  of  wrong  against  you. 
But  no!  You  reminded  labor  you  could  always  have 
your  three  square  meals  a  day  while  it  went  hungry. 
You  went  into  conference  again  with  representatives  of 
the  State,  because,  dull  as  you  are,  you  knew  public 
opinion  would  not  stand  your  holding  out.  You  chose 
as  your  spokesman  the  bitterest  tongue  that  ever  wagged 
in  this  island,  and  then,  when  an  award  was  made  by 
men  who  have  an  experience  in  industrial  matters  a 
thousand  times  transcending  yours,  who  have  settled 
disputes  in  industries  so  great  that  the  sum  of  your  petty 
enterprises  would  not  equal  them,  you  withdraw  again, 
and  will  not  agree  to  accept  their  solution,  and  fall  back 
again  on  your  devilish  policy  of  starvation.  Cry  aloud 
to  Heaven  for  new  souls!  The  souls  you  have  got  cast 
upon  the  screen  of  publicity  appear  like  the  horrid  and 
writhing  creatures  enlarged  from  the  insect  world,  and 
revealed  to  us  by  the  cinematograph. 

You  may  succeed  in  your  policy  and  ensure  your  own 
damnation  by  your  victory.  The  men  whose  manhood 
you  have  broken  will  loathe  you,  and  will  always  be 
brooding  and  scheming  to  strike  a  fresh  blow.      The 


SS6  The    Cry   for    Justice 

children  will  be  taught  to  curse  you.  The  infant  being 
molded  in  the  womb  will  have  breathed  into  its  starved 
body  the  vitality  of  hate.  It  is  not  they — it  is  you  who 
are  blind  Samsons  puUing  down  the  pillars  of  the  social 
order.  You  are  sounding  the  death-knell  of  autocracy 
in  industry.  There  was  autocracy  in  political  life,  and 
it  was  superseded  by  democracy.  So  surely  will  demo- 
cratic power  wrest  from  you  the  control  of  industry.  The 
fate  of  you,  the  aristocracy  of  industry,  will  be  as  the 
fate  of  the  aristocracy  of  land  if  you  do  not  show  that 
you  have  some  humanity  still  among  you.  Humanity 
abhors,  above  all  things,  a  vacuum  in  itself,  and  your 
class  will  be  cut  off  from  humanity  as  the  surgeon  cuts 
the  cancer  and  alien  growth  from  the  body.  Be  warned 
ere  it  is  too  late. 


(Bod  aim  tSe  fetrong:  SDm0 

By  Margahet  Widdemer 
(Contemporary  American  poet) 

**\^7^E  have  made  them  fools  and  weak!"  said  the 
*  ^       Strong  Ones : 
"We  have  bound  them,  they  are  dumb  and  deaf  and 
blind; 
We  have  crushed  them  ia  our  hands  like  a  heap  of  crimi- 
bling  sands. 
We  have  left  them  naught  to  seek  or  find: 
They  are  quiet  at  our  feet!"  said  the  Strong  Ones; 

"We  have  made  them  one  with  wood  and  stone  and 
clod; 
Serf  and  laborer  and  woman,  they  are  less  than  wise  or 

human! " 

"/  shall  raise  the  weak!"  saith  God. 


Revolt  257 

"They  are  stirring  in  the  dark!"  said  the  Strong  Ones, 

"They  are  strugghng,  who  were  moveless  like  the  dead; 
We  can  hear  them  cry  and  strain  hand  and  foot  against 
the  chain, 
We  can  hear  their  heavy  upward  tread  .... 
What  if  they  are  restless?"  said  the  Strong  Ones; 

"What  if  they  have  stirred  beneath  the  rod? 
Fools  and  weak  and  blinded  men,  we  can  tread  them 

down  again " 

"Shall  ye  conquer  Me?"  saith  God. 

"They  will- trample  us  and  bind!"  said  the  Strong  Ones; 

"We  are  crushed  beneath  the  blackened  feet  and  hands; 

All  the  strong  and  fair  and  great  they  will  crush  from  out 

the  state; 

They  will  whelm  it  with  the  weight  of  pressing  sands — 

They  are  maddened  and  are  blind!"  said  the  Strong  Ones; 

"Black  decay  has  come  where  they  have  trod; 
They  will  break  the  world  in  twain  if  their  hands  are  on 
the  rein — " 
"What  is  that  to  mef"  saith  God. 

"  Ye  have  made  them  in  their  strength,  who  were  Strong  Ones, 

Ye  have  only  taught  the  blackness  ye  have  known: 
These  are  evil  men  and  blind? — Ay,  but  molded  to  your 
mind! 
How  shall  ye  cry  out  against  your  own? 
Ye  have  held  the  light  and  beauty  I  have  given 

Far  above  the  muddied  ways  where  they  must  plod: 
Ye  have  builded  this  your  lord  with  the  lash  and  with  the 
sword — 
Reap  what  ye  have  sown!"  saith  God. 

17 


258  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Gerhart  Hatjptmann 

(German  dramatist  and  poet,  born  1862.  The  present  play  is  a 
wonderful  picture  of  the  lives  of  the  weavers  of  Silesia,  driven 
to  revolt  by  starvation.  Moritz,  a  soldier,  has  just  come  home  to  his 
friends) 

ANSORGE: — Come,  then,  Moritz,  tell  us  your  opinion, 
■^  you  that's  been  out  and  seen  the  world.  Are  things 
at  all  like  improving  for  us  weavers,  eh? 

Moritz: — They  would  need  to. 

Ansorge: — We're  in  an  awful  state  here.  It's  not 
livin'  an'  it's  not  dyin'.  A  man  fights  to  the  bitter  end, 
but  he's  bound  to  be  beat  at  last — to  be  left  without  a 
roof  over  his  head,  you  may  say  without  ground  under 
his  feet.  As  long  as  he  can  work  at  the  loom  he  can 
earn  some  sort  o'  poor,  miserable  livin'.  But  it's  many 
a  day  since  I've  been  able  to  get  that  sort  o'  job.  Now 
I  tries  to  put  a  bite  into  my  mouth  with  this  here  basket- 
makin'.  I  sits  at  it  late  into  the  night,  and  by  the  time 
I  tumbles  into  bed  I've  earned  twelve  pfennig.  I  put  it 
to  you  if  a  man  can  live  on  that,  when  everything's  so 
dear?  Nine  marks  goes  in  one  limip  for  house  tax,  three 
marks  for  land  tax,  nine  marks  for  mortgage  interest — 
that  makes  twenty-one  marks.  I  may  reckon  my  year's 
eamin's  at  just  double  that  money,  and  that  leaves  me 
twentyrone  marks  for  a  whole  year's  food,  an'  fire,  an' 
clothes,  an'  shoes;  and  I've  got  to  keep  up  some  sort 
of  place  to  live  in.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  I'm  behind- 
hand with  my  interest  payments? 

Old  Baumbrt: — Some  one  would  need  to  go  to  Berlia 
an'  tell  the  King  how  hard  put  to  it  we  are. 


Revolt  259 

MoEiTZ : — Little  good  that  would  do,  Father  Baumert. 
There's  been  plenty  written  about  it  in  the  newspapers. 
But  the  rich  people,  they  can  turn  and  twist  things 
round — as  cunning  as  the  devil  himself. 

Old  Baumert  {shaking  his  head): — To  think  they've 
no  more  sense  than  that  in  Berlin! 

Ansoege: — And  is  it  really  true,  Moritz?  Is  there 
no  law  to  help  us?  If  a  man  hasn't  been  able  to  scrape 
together  enough  to  pay  his  mortgage  interest,  though  he's 
worked  the  very  skin  off  his  hands,  must  his  house  be 
taken  from  him?  The  peasant  that's  lent  the  money 
on  it,  he  wants  his  rights — what  else  can  you  look  for 
from  him?  But  what's  to  be  the  end  of  it  all,  I  don't 
know. — If  I'm  put  out  o'  the  house.  .  .  .  (In  a  voice 
choked  by  tears.)  1  was  born  here,  and  here  my  father 
sat  at  his  loom  for  more  than  forty  years.  Many  was 
the  time  he  said  to  mother:  Mother,  when  I'm  gone,  the 
house'll  still  be  here.  I've  worked  hard  for  it.  Every 
nail  means  a  night's  weaving,  every  plank  a  year's  dry 
bread.     A  man  would  think  that.  .  .  . 

Moritz: — They're  quite  fit  to  take  the  last  bite  out 
of  your  mouth — that's  what  they  are. 

Ansorge: — Well,  well,  well!  I  would  rather  be  car- 
ried out  than  have  to  walk  out  now  in  my  old  days. 
Who  minds  dyin'?  My  father,  he  was  glad  to  die.  At 
the  very  end  he  got  frightened,  but  I  crept  into  bed 
beside  him,  an'  he  quieted  down  again.  I  was  a  lad  of 
thirteen  then.  I  was  tired  and  fell  asleep  beside  him — 
I  knew  no  better — and  when  I  woke  he  was  quite  cold.  .  .  . 

{They  eat  the  food  which  the  soldier  has  brought,  but  the 
old  man  Baumert  is  too  far  exhausted  to  retain  it,  and  has 
to  run  from  the  room.     He  comes  back  crying  with  rage.) 

Baumert: — It's  no  good!     I'm  too  far  gone!     Now 


260  The    Cry   for    Justice 

that  I've  at  last  got  hold  of  somethin'  with  a  taste  in  it, 
my  stomach  won't  keep  it.  {He  sits  down  on  the  bench 
by  the  stove  cryiiig.) 

MoRiTZ  {with  a  sudden  violent  ebullition  of  rage) : — And 
yet  there  are  people  not  far  from  here,  justices  they  call 
themselves  too,  over-fed  brutes,  that  have  nothing  to  do 
all  the  year  round  but  invent  new  ways  of  wasting  their 
time.  And  these  people  say  that  the  weavers  would  be 
quite  well  off  if  only  they  weren't  so  lazy. 

Ansorge: — The  men  as  say  that  are  no  men  at  all, 
they're  monsters. 

MoHiTz: — Never  mind,  Father  Ansorge;  we're  making 
the  place  hot  for  'em.  Becker  and  I  have  been  and  given 
Dreissiger  {the  master)  a  piece  of  our  mind,  and  before 
we  came  away  we  sang  him  "Bloody  Justice." 

Ansorge: — Good  Lord!     Is  that  the  song? 

MoRiTz: — Yes;  I  have  it  here. 

Ansorge: — They  call  it  Dreissiger's  song,  don't  they? 

MoRiTz: — I'll  read  it  to  you. 

Mother  Baumert: — Who  wrote  it? 

MoRiTz: — That's  what  nobody  knows.  Now  listen. 
{He  reads,  hesitating  like  a  schoolboy,  with  incorrect  accen- 
tuation, but  unmistakably  strong  feeling.  Despair,  suffer- 
ing, rage,  hatred,  thirst  for  revenge,  all  find  utterance.) 

The  justice  to  us  weavers  dealt 

Is  bloody,  cruel,  and  hateful; 
Our  life's  one  torture,  long  drawn  out: 

For  lynch  law  we'd  be  grateful. 

Stretched  on  the  rack  day  after  day, 

Hearts  sick  and  bodies  aching. 
Our  heavy  sighs  their  witness  bear 

To  spirit  slowly  breaking. 


Revolt  261 

{The  words  of  the  song  make  a  strong  impression  on  Old 
Baumert.  Deeply  agitated,  he  struggles  against  the  tempta- 
tion to  interrupt  Moritz.  At  last  he  can  keep  quiet  no 
longer.) 

Old  Baumert  {to  his  wife,  half  laughing,  half  crying, 
stammering): — "Stretched  on  the  rack  day  after  day." 
Whoever  wrote  that,  mother,  knew  the  truth.  You  can 
bear  witness  ...  eh,  how  does  it  go?  "Ovu-  heavy  sighs 
their  witness  bear"  .  .  .  what's  the  rest? 

Moritz: — "To  spirit  slowly  breaking." 

Old  Baumert: — You  know  the  way  we  sigh,  mother, 
day  and  night,  sleepin'  an'  wakin'. 

{Ansorge  has  stopped  working,  and  cowers  on  the  floor, 
strongly  agitated.  Mother  Baumert  and  Bertha  wipe  their 
eyes  frequently  during  the  course  of  the  reading.) 

Moritz  {continues  to  read): — 

The  Dreissigers  true  hangmen  are. 

Servants  no  whit  behind  them; 
Masters  and  men  with  one  accord 

Set  on  the  poor  to  grind  them. 
You  villains  all,  you  brood  of  hell 


Old  Baumert   {trembling  with  rage,  stamping  on  the 
floor) : — Yes,  brood  of  hell  !  !  ! 
MoBiTZ  {reads): — 

You  fiends  in  fashion  human, 
A  curse  will  fall  on  all  hke  you. 
Who  prey  on  man  and  woman. 

Ansorge: — Yes,  yes,  a  curse  upon  them! 
Old  Baumert  {clenching  his  fist,  threateningly): — You 
prey  on  man  and  woman. 


262  The    Cry   for    Justice 

MoBiTZ  (reads): — 

Then  think  of  all  our  woe  and  want, 

0  ye  who  hear  this  ditty! 
Our  struggle  vain  for  daily  bread 

Hard  hearts  would  move  to  pity. 

But  pity's  what  you've  never  known, — 
You'd  take  both  skin  and  clothing. 

You  cannibals,  whose  cruel  deeds 
Fill  all  good  men  with  loathing. 

Old  Baumert  (jumps  up,  beside  himself  with  excite- 
ment):— Both  skin  and  clothing.  It's  true,  it's  all  true! 
Here  I  stand,  Robert  Baumert,  master-weaver  of  Kasch- 
bach.  Who  can  bring  up  anything  against  me?  .  .  . 
I've  been  an  honest,  hard-working  man.  all  my  life  long, 
an'  look  at  me  now!  What  have  I  to  show  for  it?  Look 
at  me!  See  what  they've  made  of  me!  Stretched  on 
the  rack  day  after  day.  (He  holds  out  his  arms.)  Feel 
that!  Skin  and  bone!  "You  villains  all,  you  brood  of 
hell!!"  (He  sinks  down  on  a  chair,  weeping  with  rage  and 
despair.) 

Ansorge  (flings  his  basket  from  him  into  a  corner, 
rises,  his  whole  body  trembling  with  rage,  gasps): — And  the 
time's  come  now  for  a  change,  I  say.  We'll  stand  it  no 
longer!    We'll  stand  it  no  longer!     Come  what  may! 


'ti  3- 


o 


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B 

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td 
td 

> 


Revolt  263 

Stltoit  Eocltc'0  S»onB:    1848 

By  Charles  Kingsley 
(See  pages  78,  84,  223) 

^^  7EEP,  weep,  weep  and  weep 
'  *       For  pauper,  dolt  and  slave! 

Hark!  from  wasted  moor  and  fen 

Feverous  alley,  stifling  den. 

Swells  the  wail  of  Saxon  men — 
Work!  or  the  grave! 

Down,  down,  down  and  down. 
With  idler,  knave,  and  tyrant! 

Why  for  sluggards  cark  and  moil? 

He  that  will  not  live  by  tbil 

Has  no  right  on  English  soil! 
God's  word's  our  warrant! 

Up,  up,  up  and  up! 

Face  your  game  and  play  it! 
The  night  is  past,  behold  the  sun! 
The  idols  fall,  the  lie  is  done! 
The  Judge  is  set,  the  doom  begim! 

Who  shall  stay  it? 


By  G.  Bernard  Shaw 

DO  not  waste  your  time  on  Social  Questions.     What 
is  the  matter  with  the  poor  is  Poverty    what  is 
the  matter  with  the  Rich  is  Uselessness. 


M4  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Robert  G.  Ingersoll 
(American  lawyer  and  lecturer,  1883-1899) 

A"\ /"HOEVER  produces  anything  by  weary  labor,  does 
*  '     not  need  a  revelation  from  heaven  to  teach  him 
that  he  has  a  right  to  the  thing  produced. 


Eabor 


(A  parody  upon  a  poem  by  Rudyard  Kipling;   author  unknown. 

The  poem  is  frequently,  but  incorrectly,  attributed  to 

Mr.  Kipling) 

WE  have  fed  you  all  for  a  thousand  years, 
And  you  hail  us  still  unfed, 
Tho'  there's  never  a  dollar  of  all  your  wealth 

But  marks  the  workers'  dead. 
We  have  yielded  our  best  to  give  you  rest, 

And  you  lie  on  crimson  wool ; 
For  if  blood  be  the  price  of  all  your  wealth 
Good  God,  we  ha'  paid  in  full ! 

There's  never  a  mine  blown  skyward  now 

But  we're  buried  alive  for  you; 
There's  never  a  wreck  drifts  shoreward  now 

But  we  are  its  ghastly  crew; 
Go  reckon  our  dead  by  the  forges  red, 

And  the  factories  where  we  spin. 
If  blood  be  the  price  of  your  cursed  wealth 

Good  God,  we  ha'  paid  it  in! 


Revolt  265 

We  have  fed  you  all  for  a  thousand  years, 

For  that  was  our  doom,  you  know. 
From  the  days  when  you  chained  us  in  your  fields 

To  the  strike  of  a  week  ago. 
You  ha'  eaten  om-  lives  and  ovu*  babies  and  wives, 

And  we're  told  it's  your  legal  share; 
But,  if  blood  be  the  price  of  your  lawful  wealth. 

Good  God,  we  ha'  bought  it  fair! 


%^t  Woio  "Eeigng*  of  'STfttor" 

{From  "A  Connecticut  Yankee  in  King  Arthur's  Court") 

By  Mark  Twain 

(It  is  not  generally  realized  that  America's  most  beloved  humorist 
was  deeply  stirred  by  the  sight  of  social  injustice,  and  many  times 
went  out  of  his  way  to  give  voice  to  his  feelings.  His  recently  pub- 
lished biography  shows  that  influences  were  at  work  during  his 
lifetime  to  repress  him,  and  it  would  seem  that  such  influences  are 
still  active  after  his  death.  It  was  found  impossible  to  obtain  the 
publishers'  permission  to  quote  a  passage  of  176  words,  which  was 
to  have  appeared  at  this  place  in  the  Anthology.  The  passage  in 
question  is  from  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  "A  Connecticut  Yankee 
in  King  Arthur's  Court."  It  points  out  that  there  were  two  "Reigns 
of  Terror''  in  France;  that  the  evils  of  the  "minor  Terror,"  that 
of  the  Revolution,  have  been  made  much  of,  although  they  lasted 
only  a  few  months,  and  caused  the  death  of  only  ten  thousand  per- 
sons; whereas  there  was  another,  "an  older  and  real  Terror," 
which  had  lasted  a  thousand  years,  and  brought  death  to  hun- 
dreds of  millions  of  persons.  We  consider  it  horrible  that  people 
should  have  their  heads  cut  off,  but  we  have  not  been  taught  to 
see  the  horror  of  the  life-long  death  which  is  inflicted  upon  a  whole 
population  by  poverty  and  tyranny) 


266  The    Cry   for    Justice 

In  'Trafalgar  ^quat^ 

{From  "Songs  of  the  Army  of  the  Night") 

By  Francis  W.  L.  Adams 

(See  page  219) 

'  I  "HE  stars  shone  faint  through  the  smoky  blue; 

■^      The  church-bells  were  ringing; 
Three  girls,  arms  laced,  were  passing  through, 
Tramping  and  singing. 

Their  heads  were  bare;  their  short  skirts  swung 

As  they  went  along; 
Their  scarf-covered  breasts  heaved  up,  as  they  sung 

Their  defiant  song. 

It  was  not  too  clean,  their  feminine  lay. 

But  it  thrilled  me  quite 
With  its  challenge  to  task-master  villainous  day 

And  infamous  night, 

With  its  threat  to  the  robber  rich,  the  proud, 

The  respectable  free. 
And  I  laughed  and  shouted  to  them  aloud, 

And  they  shouted  to  me ! 

"Girls,  that's  the  shout,  the  shout  we  will  utter 

When,  with  rifles  and  spades. 
We  stand,  with  the  old  Red  Flag  aflutter, 

On  the  barricades!" 


Revolt  267 

Cfie  Orator  on  tfie  ©atricadc 

{From  "Les  Miserables") 

By  Victor  Hugo 

(See  page  182) 

I  (FRIENDS,  the  hour  in  which  we  Hve,  and  in  which 
-'-  I  speak  to  you,  is  a  gloomy  hour,  but  of  such  is  the 
terrible  price  of  the  future.  A  revolution  is  a  toll-gate. 
Oh!  the  human  race  shall  be  delivered,  uplifted  and  con- 
soled! We  affirm  it  on  this  barricade.  Whence  shall 
arise  the  shout  of  love,  if  it  be  not  from  the  summit  of 
sacrifice?  0  my  brothers,  here  is  the  place  of  junction 
between  those  who  think  and  those  who  suffer;  this 
barricade  is  made  neither  of  paving-stones,  nor  of  tim- 
bers, nor  of  iron;  it  is  made  of  two  mounds,  a  mound  of 
ideas  and  a  mound  of  sorrows.  Misery  here  encounters 
the  ideal.  Here  day  embraces  night,  and  says:  I  will 
die  with  thee  and  thou  shalt  be  bom  again  with  me. 
From  the  pressure  of  all  desolations  faith  gushes  forth. 
Sufferings  bring  their  agony  here,  and  ideas  their  immor- 
tality. This  agony  and  this  immortality  are  to  mingle 
and  compose  our  death.  Brothers,  he  who  dies  here 
dies  in  the  radiance  of  the  future,  and  we  are  entering 
a  grave  illumined  by  the  dawn. 


268  The    Cry   for    Justice 

(Etttopt:  'STfie  72nti  ana  73rli  gtar0  ot  %lt&t  &tate0 

By  Walt  Whitman 
(The  European  revolutions  of  1848^9) 

CUDDENLY  out  of  its  stale  and  drowsy  lair,  the  lair 
^^        of  slaves, 

Like  lightning  it  le'pt  forth  half  startled  at  itself, 
Its  feet  upon  the  ashes  and  the  rags,  its  hands  tight  to 
the  throats  of  kings. 

0  hope  and  faith! 

0  aching  close  of  exiled  patriots'  lives! 

0  many  a  sicken'd  heart! 

Turn  back  unto  this  day,  and  make  yourselves  afresh. 

And  you,  paid  to  defile  the  People!  you  liars,  mark! 

Not  for  numberless  agonies,  murders,  lusts, 

For  court  thieving  in  its  manifold  mean  forms,  worming 

from  his  simplicity  the  poor  man's  wages. 
For  many  a  promise  sworn  by  royal  lips,  and  broken,  and 

laugh'd  at  in  the  breaking. 
Then  in  their  power,  not  for  all  these,  did  the  blows  strike 

revenge,  or  the  heads  of  the  nobles  fall; 
The  People  scorn'd  the  ferocity  of  kings. 

But  the  sweetness  of  mercy  brew'd  bitter  destruction, 
and  the  frighten'd  monarchs  come  back; 

Each  comes  in  state,  with  his  train — hangman,  priest,  tax- 
gatherer. 

Soldier,  lawyer,  lord,  jailer,  and  sycophant. 


Revolt  269 

Yet  behind  all,  lowering,  stealing — lo,  a  Shape, 

Vague  as  the  night,  draped  interminable,  head,  front,  and 

form,  in  scarlet  folds. 
Whose  face  and  eyes  none  may  see. 
Out  of  its  robes  only  this — ^the  red  robes,  hfted  by  the 

arm. 
One  finger,  crook'd,  pointed  high  over  the  top,  hke  the 

head  of  a  snake  appears. 

Meanwhile,    corpses    lie    in    new-made    graves — bloody 

corpses  of  young  men; 
The  rope  of  the  gibbet  hangs  heavily,  the  bullets  of 

princes  are  flying,  the  creatures  of  power  laugh 

aloud, 
And  all  these  things  bear  fruits — and  they  are  good. 

Those  corpses  of  young  men. 

Those  martyrs  that  hang  from  the  gibbets — those  hearts 

pierc'd  by  the  gray  lead, 
Cold  and  motionless  as  they  seem,  live  elsewhere  with 

unslaughter'd  vitality. 

They  live  in  other  young  men,  0  kings! 
They  live  in  brothers  again  ready  to  defy  you! 
They  were  purified  by  death — they  were  taught  and 
exalted. 

Not  a  grave  of  the  murder'd  for  freedom,  but  grows  seed 
for  freedom,  in  its  turn  to  bear  seed. 

Which  the  winds  carry  afar  and  re-sow,  and  the  rains 
and  the  snows  nourish. 


270  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Not  a  disembodied  spirit  can  the  weapons  of  tyrants  let 
loose, 

But  it  stalks  invisibly  over  the  earth,  whispering,  counsel- 
ling, cautioning. 

Liberty!  let  others  despair  of  you!  I  never  despair  of  you. 

Is  the  house  shut?     Is  the  master  away? 
Nevertheless,  be  ready — ^be  not  weary  of  watching; 
He  will  return  soon — his  messengers  come  anon. 


%lz  SDcati  to  Xlt  Eibfnff 

By  Ferdinand  Feeiligrath 

(German  revolutionary  poet,  1810-1876.  Part  of  a  poem  writ- 
ten after  the  uprising  of  1848,  in  Berlin,  when  the  people  marched 
past  the  palace-gates  with  their  slain,  and  compelled  the  king  to 
stand  upon  the  balcony  and  take  off  his  hat  to  the  bodies) 

^^/"ITH  bullets  through  and  through  our  breast — our 

'  '       forehead  split  with  pike  and  spear. 
So  bear  us  onward  shoulder  high,  laid  dead  upon  a  blood- 
stained bier; 
Yea,  shoulder-high  above  the  crowd,  that  on  the  man  that 

bade  us  die. 
Our  dreadful  death-distorted  face  may  be  a  bitter  curse 

for  aye; 
That  he  may  see  it  day  and  night,  or  when  he  wakes,  or 

when  he  sleeps. 
Or  when  he  opes  his  holy  book,  or  when  with  wine  high 

revel  keeps; 
That  always  each  disfeatured  face,  each  gaping  wound 

his  sight  may  sear,. 
And  brood  above  his  bed  of  death,  and  curdle  all  his 

blood  with  fear! 


Revolt  271 

By  Sie  Leslie  Stephen 
(English  essayist  and  critic,  1832-1904) 

T  FOR  one,  am  fully  prepared  to  listen  to  any  argu- 
■*■  1  ments  for  the  propriety  of  theft  or  murder,  or  if 
it  be  possible,  of  immorality  in  the  abstract.  No  doc- 
trine, however  well  established,  should  be  protected  from 
discussion.  If,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  any  appreciable 
number  of  persons  are  so  inclined  to  advocate  murder 
on  principle,  I  should  wish  them  to  state  their  opinions 
openly  and  fearlessly,  because  I  should  think  that  the 
shortest  way  of  exploding  the  principle  and  of  ascertain- 
ing the  true  causes  of  such  a  perversion  of  moral  senti- 
ment. Such  a  state  of  things  implies  the  existence  of 
evils  which  cannot  be  really  cured  till  their  cause  is 
known,  and  the  shortest  way  to  discover  the  cause  is 
to  give  a  hearing  to  the  alleged  reasons. 


By  Wendell  Phillips 
(American  anti-slavery  agitator,  1811-1884) 


TF  there  i 
■'■   let  it  era 


is ,  anything -that  cannot  bear  free  thought, 
crack. 


272  The    Cry   for    Justice 

'H^t  Sl^a^ft  of  anarcSg 

By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

(English  poet  of  nature  and  human  liberty,  1792-1822,  whose  whole 

life  was  a  cry  for  beauty  and  freedom.     He  died  in  obloquy  and 

neglect,  and  today  is  known  as  "the  Poets'  Poet") 

"N  yf  EN  of  England,  Heirs  of  Glory, 
■'-*■'•     Heroes  of  unwritten  story, 
Nurslings  of  one  mighty  mother, 
Hopes  of  her,  and  one  another! 

Rise,  like  lions  after  slumber, 
In  unvanquishable  number. 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth  like  dew, 
Which  in  sleep  had  fall'n  on  you. 
Ye  are  many,  they  are  few. 

What  is  Freedom!     Ye  can  tell 
That  which  Slavery  is  too  well, 
For  its  very  name  has  grown 
To  an  echo  of  your  own. 

'Tis  to  work,  and  have  such  pay 
As  just  keeps  life  from  day  to  day 
In  your  limbs  as  in  a  cell 
For  the  tyrants'  use  to  dwell : 

So  that  ye  for  them  are  made, 
Loom,  and  plough,  and  sword,  and  spade; 
With  or  without  your  own  will,  bent 
To  their  defence  and  nourishment. 


Revolt 27S 

'Tis  to  see  your  children  weak 
With  their  mothers  pine  and  peak, 
When  the  winter  winds  are  bleak: — 
They  are  dying  whilst  I  speak. 

'Tis  to  hunger  for  such  diet 
As  the  rich  man  in  his  riot 
Casts  to  the  fat  dogs  that  lie 
Surfeiting  beneath  his  eye. 

'Tis  to  be  a  slave  in  soul, 
And  to  hold  no  strong  control 
Over  your  own  wills,  but  be 
All  that  others  make  of  ye. 


By  Henbik  Ibsen 
(See  page  241) 

AWAY  with  the  State !  I  will  take  part  in  that  revolu- 
■  tion.  Undermine  the  whole  conception  of  a  state, 
declare  free  choice  and  spiritual  kinship  to  be  the  only 
all-important  conditions  of  any  union,  and  you  will  have 
the  commencement  of  a  liberty  that  is  worth  something. 


27Jt.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Cfirt^tmagf  (n  Ptisfon 

(from  "  The  Jungle") 
By  Upton  Sinclair 
(See  pages  43,  143,  194) 

IN  the  distance  there  was  a  church-tower  bell  that 
tolled  the  hours  one  by  one.  When  it  came  to  mid- 
night Jurgis  was  lying  upon  the  floor  with  his  head  in 
his  arms,  listening.  Instead  of  falling  silent  at  the  end, 
the  bell  broke  out  into  a  sudden  clangor.  Jurgis  raised 
his  head;  what  could  that  mean — a  fire?  God!  suppose 
there  were  to  be  a  fire  in  this  jail!  But  then  he  made 
out  a  melody  in  the  ringing;  there  were  chimes.-  And 
they  seemed  to  waken  the  city — all  around,  far  and  near, 
there  were  bells,  ringing  wild  music;  for  fully  a  minute 
Jurgis  lay  lost  in  wonder,  before,  all  at  once,  the  mean- 
ing of  it  broke  over  him — that  this  was  Christmas  Eve! 

Christmas  Eve — ^he  had  forgotten  it  entirely!  There 
was  a  breaking  of  flood-gates,  a  whirl  of  new  memories 
and  new  griefs  rushing  into  his  mind.  In  far  Lithuania 
they  had  celebrated  Christmas;  and  it  came  to  him  as 
if  it  had  been  yesterday — him^self  a  little  child,  with  his 
lost  brother  and  his  dead  father  in  the  cabin  in  the  deep 
black  forest,  where  the  snow  fell  all  day  and  all  night  and 
buried  them  from  the  world.  It  was  too  far  off  for  Santa 
Claus  in  Lithuania,  but  it  was  not  too  far  for  peace  and 
good-will  to  men,  for  the  wonder-bearing  vision  of  the 
Christ-child. 

But  no,  their  bells  were  not  ringing  for  him — ^their 
Christmas  was  not  meant  for  him,  they  were  simply  not 
counting  him  at  all.  He  was  of  no  consequence,  like  a 
bit  of  trash,  the  carcass  of  some  animal.     It  was  horrible, 


Revolt  275 

horrible!  His  wife  migtit  be  dying,  his  baby  might  be 
starving,  his  whole  family  might  be  perishing  in  the 
cold — and  all  the  while  they  were  ringing  their  Christ- 
mas chimes!  And  the  bitter  mockery  of  it — all  this  was 
punishment  for  him!  They  put  him  in  a  place  where 
the  snow  could  not  beat  in,  where  the  cold  could  not  eat 
through  his  bones;  they  brought  him  food  and  drink — 
why,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  if  they  must  punish  him, 
did  they  not  put  his  family  in  jail  and  leave  him  outside 
— ^why  could  they  find  no  better  way  to  punish  him  than 
to  leave  three  weak  women  and  six  helpless  children  to 
starve  and  freeze? 

That  was  their  law,  that  was  their  justice!  Jurgis 
stood  upright,  trembling  with  passion,  his  hands  clenched 
and  his  arms  upraised,  his  whole  soul  ablaze  with  hatred 
and  defiance.  Ten  thousand  curses  upon  them  and  their 
law!  Their  justice — it  was  a  lie,  a  sham  and  a  loath- 
some mockery.  There  was  no  justice,  there  was  no  right, 
anywhere  in  it — it  was  only  force,  it  was  tyranny,  the 
will  and  the  power,  reckless  and  unrestrained! 

These  midnight  hours  were  fateful  ones  to  Jurgis;  in 
them  was  the  beginning  of  his  rebellion,  of  his  outlawry 
and  his  unbelief.  He  had  no  wit  to  trace  back  the  social 
crime  to  its  far  sources — he  could  not  say  it  was  the  thing 
men  have  called  "the  system"  that  was  crushing  him 
to  the  earth;  that  it  was  the  packers,  his  masters,  who 
had  bought  up  the  law  of  the  land,  and  had  dealt  out 
their  brutal  will  to  him  from  the  seat  of  justice.  He 
only  knew  that  he  was  wronged,  and  that  the  world  had 
wronged  him;  that  the  law,  that  society,  with  all  its 
powers,  had  declared  itself  his  foe.  And  every  hour  his 
soul  grew  blacker,  every  hour  he  dreamed  new  dreams 
of  vengeance,  of  defiance,  of  raging,  frenzied  hate. 


S76  The    Cry   for    Justice 

lSiObbtt&  anti  (5oiietnment& 

By  Leo  Tolstoy 

(See  pages  88,  110,  148) 

'  I  "HE  robber  generally  plundered  the  rich,  the  govern- 
■•-  ments  generally  plunder  .the  poor  and  protect  those 
rich  who  assist  in  their  crimes.  The  robber  doing  his 
work  risked  his  life,  while  the  governments  risk  nothing, 
but  base  their  whole  activity  on  lies  and  deception.  The 
robber  did  not  compel  anyone  to  join  his  band,  the  govern- 
ments generally  enrol  their  soldiers  by  force.  .  .  .  The 
robber  did  not  intentionally  vitiate  people,  but  the  govern- 
ments, to  accomplish  their  ends,  vitiate  whole  generations 
from  childhood  to  manhood  with  false  religions  and 
patriotic  instruction. 


"(Kanmrn"  in  I&tatl 

(From  "  A  Sociological  Study  of  the  Bible  ") 
By  Louis  Wallis 

^^7E  saw  that  the  great  revolt  under  David  was  put 
*  '  down  by  the  assistance  of  mercenary  troops,  or 
hired  "strong  men,"  and  that  by  their  aid  Solomon  was 
elevated  to  the  throne  against  the  wishes  of  the  peasantry. 
In  the  Hebrew  text,  these  men  of  power  are  called  gib- 
borim.  They  were  among  the  principal  tools  used  by 
the  kings  in  maintaining  the  government.  It  was  the 
gibborim  who  garrisoned  the  royal  strongholds  that  held 
the  country  in  awe.  In  cases  where  the  peasants  refused 
to  submit,  bands  of  gibborim  were  sent  out  by  the  kings 
and  the  great  nobles.     Through  them  the  peasantry  were 


Revolt  S77 

"civilized";   and  through  them,  apparently,  the  Amorite 
law  was  enforced  in  opposition  to  the  old  justice. 

Hence  the  prophets  were  very  bitter  against  these  tools 
of  the  ruhng  class.  Hosea  writes:  "Thou  didst  trust  in 
thy  way,  in  the  multitude  of  thy  gibborim;  therefore 
shall  a  tumult  arise  against  thy  people;  and  all  thy  for- 
tresses shall  be  destroyed."  Amos,  the  shepherd,  says 
that  when  Jehovah  shall  punish  the  land,  the  gibborim 
shallfall:  "  Flight  shall  perish  from  the  swift  .  .  .  neither 
shall  the  gibbor  deliver  himself;  neither  shall  he  stand 
that  handeth  the  bow;  and  he  that  is  swift  of  foot  shall 
not  deliver  himself;  .  .  .  and  he  that  is  courageous  among 
the  gibborim  shall  flee  away  naked  in  that  day,  saith 
Jehovah." 


"CKunimn"  in  mc0t  i?lrsmfa 

{"When  the  Leaves  Come  Out") 

By  a  Paint  Creek  Miner 

(Written  during  the  terrible  strike  of  1911-12) 

THE  hills  are  very  bare  and  cold  and  lonely; 
I  wonder  what  the  future  months  will  bring. 
The  strike  is  on — our  strength  would  win,  if  only — 
0,  Buddy,  how  I'm  longing  for  the  spring! 

They've  got  us  down — ^their  martial  lines  enfold  us; 

They've  thrown  us  out  to  feel  the  winter's  sting. 
And  yet,  by  God,  those  curs  can  never  hold  us, 

Nor  could  the  dogs  of  hell  do  such  a  thing! 


S78  The    Cry   for    Justice 

It  isn't  just  to  see  the  hills  beside  me 

Grow  fresh  and  green  with  every  growing  thing; 

I  only  want  the  leaves  to  come  and  hide  me, 
To  cover  up  my  vengeful  wandering. 

I  will  not  watch  the  floating  clouds  that  hover 
Above  the  birds  that  warble  on  the  wing; 

I  want  to  use  this  gun  from  under  cover — • 
0,  Buddy,  how  I'm  longing  for  the  spring! 

You  see  them  there,  below,  the  damned  scab-herders! 

Those  puppets  on  the  greedy  Owners'  String; 
We'll  make  them  pay  for  all  their  dirty  murders — 

We'll  show  them  how  a  starveling's  hate  can  sting! 

They  riddled  us  with  volley  after  volley; 

We  heard  their  speeding  bullets  zip  and  ring, 
But  soon  we'll  make  them  suffer  for  their  folly — 

0,  Buddy,  how  I'm  longing  for  the  spring! 


s 


From  Ecclesiastes 
URELY  oppression  maketh  a  wise  man  mad. 


political  ipiolmcj 

(From  an  Anarchist  pamphlet  published  in  London; 
author  unknown) 

T  TNDER  miserable  conditions  of  life,  any  vision  of  the 
^^  possibility  of  better  things  makes  the  present  mis- 
ery more  intolerable,  and  spurs  those  who  suffer  to  the 
most  energetic  struggles  to  improve  their  lot;    and  if 


Revolt  279 

these  struggles  only  result  in  sharper  misery,  the  out- 
come is  sheer  desperation.  In  our  present  society,  for 
instance,  an  exploited  wage  worker,  who  catches  a  glimpse 
of  what  life  and  work  ought  to  be,  finds  the  toilsome 
routine  and  the  squalor  of  his  existence  almost  intolerable; 
and  even  when  he  has  the  resolution  and  courage  to  con- 
tinue steadily  working  his  best,  and  waiting  until  new 
ideas  have  so  permeated  society  as  to  pave  the  way  for 
better  times,  the  mere  fact  that  he  has  such  ideas  and 
tries  to  spread  them,  brings  him  into  difficulties  with  his 
employers.  How  many  thousands  of  Socialists,  and 
above  all  Anarchists,  have  lost  work  and  even  the  chance 
of  work,  solely  on  the  ground  of  their  opinions.  It  is 
only  the  specially  gifted  craftsman  who,  if  he  be  a  zealous 
propagandist,  can  hope  to  retain  permanent  employment. 
And  what  happens  to  a  man  with  his  brain  working 
actively  with  a  ferment  of  new  ideas,  with  a  vision  before 
his  eyes,  of  a  new  hope  dawning  for  toiling  and  agonizing 
men,  with  the  knowledge  that  his  suffering  and  that  of 
his  fellows  in  misery  is  not  caused  by  the  cruelty  of  fate, 
but  by  the  injustice  of  other  hmnan  beings, — what  hap- 
pens to  such  a  man  when  he  sees  those  dear  to  him 
starving,  when  he  himself  is  starved?  Some  natures  in 
such  a  plight,  and  those  by  no  means  the  least  social  or 
the  least  sensitive,  will  become  violent,  and  will  even  feel 
that  their  violence  is  social  and  not  anti-social,  that  in 
striking  when  and  how  they  can,  they  are  striking,  not 
for  themselves,  but  for  human  nature,  outraged  and 
despoiled  in  their  persons  and  in  those  of  their  fellow 
sufferers.  And  are  we,  who  ourselves  are  not  in  this 
horrible  predicament,  to  stand ,  by  and  coldly  condemn 
those  piteous  victims  of  the  Furies  and  Fates?  Are  we 
to  decry  as  miscreants  these  human  beings  who  act  with 


280  The    Cry   for    Justice 

heroic  self-devotion,  sacrificing  their  lives  in  protest, 
where  less  social  and  less  energetic  natures  would  lie 
down  and  grovel  in  abject  submission  to  injustice  and 
wrong?  Are  we  to  join  the  ignorant  and  brutal  outcry 
which  stigmatizes  such  men  as  monsters  of  wickedness, 
gratuitously  running  amuck  in  a  harmonious  and  inno- 
cently peaceful  society?  No!  We  hate  murder  with  a 
hatred  that  may  seem  absurdly  exaggerated  to  apologists 
for  Matabele  massacres,  to  callous  acquiescers  in  hangings 
and  bombardments;  but  we  decline  in  such  cases  of  homi- 
cide, or  attempted  homicide,  as  those  of  which  we  are 
treating,  to  be  guilty  of  the  cruel  injustice  of  flinging  the 
whole  responsibility  of  the  deed  upon  the  immediate  per- 
petrator. The  guilt  of  these  homicides  lies  upon  every 
man  and  woman  who,  intentionally  or  by  cold  indiffer- 
ence, helps  to  keep  up  social  conditions  that  drive  himian 
beings  to  despair.  The  man  who  flings  his  whole  life 
into  the  attempt,  at  the  cost  of  his  own  life,  to, protest 
against  the  wrongs  of  his  fellow-men,  is  a  saint  compared 
to  the  active  and  passive  upholders  of  cruelty  and  in- 
justice, even  if  his  protest  destroys  other  lives  besides  his 
own.  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  in  society  cast  the  first 
stone  at  such  an  one. 


Revolt  281 

By  Frank  Harris 

(The  English  author,  born  1855,  author  of  "The  Man  Shake- 
speare," has  in  this  novel  told  the  inside  story  of  the  Haymarket 
explosion  in  Chicago  in  1886.  The  following  passage  describes  the 
treatment  which  the  strikers  received  from  the  police) 

A  MEETING  was  called  on  a  waste  space  in  Packing- 
-^*-  town,  and  over  a  thousand  workmen  came  together. 
I  went  there  out  of  curiosity.  Lingg,  I  may  say  here, 
always  went  alone  to  these  strike  meetings.  Ida  told  me 
once  that  he  suffered  so  much  at  them  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  be  seen,  and  perhaps  that  was  the  explanation  of 
his  solitary  ways.  Fielden,  the  Englishman,  spoke  first, 
and  was  cheered  to  the  echo;  the  workmen  knew  him  as 
a  working-man  and  liked  him;  besides,  he  talked  in  a 
homely  way,  and  was  easy  to  understand.  Spies  spoke 
in  German  and  was  cheered  also.  The  meeting  was 
perfectly  orderly  when  three  hundred  police  tried  to  dis- 
perse it.  The  action  was  ill-advised,  to  say  the  best  of 
it,  and  tyrannical;  the  strikers  were  hurting  no  one  and 
interfering  with  no  one.  Without  warning  or  reason  the 
police  tried  to  push  their  way  through  the  crowd  to  the 
speakers;  finding  a  sort  of  passive  resistance  and  not 
being  able  to  overcome  it,  they  used  their  clubs  savagely. 
One  or  two  of  the  strikers,  hot-headed,  bared  their  knives, 
and  at  once  the  police,  led  on  by  that  madman,  Schaack, 
drew  their  revolvers  and  fired.  It  looked  as  if  the  police 
had  been  waiting  for  the  opportunity.  Three  strikers 
were  shot  dead  on  the  spot,  and  more  than  twenty  were 
wounded,  several  of  them  dangerously,  before  the  mob 
drew  sullenly  away  from  the  horrible  place.     A  leader. 


282  The    Cry   for    Justice 

a  word,  and  not  one  of  the  police  would  have  escaped 
alive;  but  the  leader  was  not  there,  and  the  word  was 
not  given,  so  the  wrong  was  done,  and  went  unpunished. 

I  do  not  know  how  I  reached  my  room  that  afternoon. 
The  sight  of  the  dead  men  lying  stark  there  in  the  snow 
had  excited  me  to  madness.  The  picture  of  one  man 
followed  me  like  an  obsession;  he  was  wounded  to  death, 
shot  through  the  lungs;  he  hfted  himself  up  on  his  left 
hand  and  shook  the  right  at  the  pohce,  crying  in  a  sort 
of  frenzy  till  the  spouting  blood  choked  him — 

"Bestien!  Bestien!"  ("Beasts!  Beasts!") 

I  can  still  see  him  wiping  the  blood-stained  froth  from 
his  lips;  I  went  to  help  him;  but  all  he  could  gasp  was, 
"Weib!  Kinder!  (Wife,  children!)"  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  despair  in  his  face.  i\  I  supported  him  gently;  again 
and  again  I  wiped  the  blood  from  his  lips;  every  breath 
brought  up  a  flood;  his  poor  eyes  thanked  me,  though 
he  could  not  speak,  and  soon  his  eyes  closed;  flickered 
out,  as  one  might  say,  and  he  lay  there  still  enough  in 
his  own  blood;  "murdered,"  as  I  said  to  myself  when 
I  laid  the  poor  body  back;   "murdered!" 

{As  a  result  of  this  police  action,  the  narrator  goes  to 
the  next  meeting  of  the  strikers  with  a  bomb  in  his  pocket.) 

The  crowd  began  to  drift  away  at  the  edges.  I  was 
alone  and  curiously  watchful.  I  saw  the  mayor  and  the 
officials  move  off  towards  the  business  part  of  the  town. 
It  looked  for  a  few  minutes  as  if  everything  was  going 
to  pass  over  in  peace;  but  I  was  not  reUeved.  I  could 
hear  my  own  heart  beating,  and  suddenly  I  felt  something 
in  the  air;  it  was  sentient  with  expectancy.  I  slowly 
turned  my  head.  I  was  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  and  as  I  turned  I  saw  that  Bonfield  had  marched 
out  his  police,  and  was  minded  to  take  his  own  way  with 


Revolt  283 

the  meeting  now  that  the  mayor  had  left.  I  felt  per- 
sonal antagonism  stiffen  my  muscles.  ...  It  grew  darker 
and  darker  every  moment.  Suddenly  there  came  a  flash, 
and  then  a  peal  of  thunder.  At  the  end  of  the  flash,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  I  saw  the  white  clubs  falling,  saw  the 
police  striking  down  the  men  running  along  the  side- 
walk. At  once  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  put  my  left 
hand  on  the  outside  of  my  trousers  to  hold  the  bomb 
tight,  and  my  right  hand  into  the  pocket,  and  drew  the 
tape.  I  heard  a  little  rasp.  I  began  to  count  slowly, 
"One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven;"  as  I  got  to 
seven  the  police  were  quite  close  to  me,  bludgeoning 
every  one  furiously.  Two  or  three  of  the  foremost  had 
drawn  their  revolvers.  The  crowd  were  flying  in  all 
directions.  Suddenly  there  was  a  shot,  and  then  a  dozen 
shots,  all,  it  seemed  to  me.  fired  by  the  police.  Rage 
blazed  in  me. 

I  took  the  bomb  out  of  my  pocket,  careless  whether 
I  was  seen  or  not,  and  looked  for  the  right  place  to  throw 
it;  then  I  hurled  it  over  my  shoulder  high  in  the  air, 
towards  the  middle  of  the  police,  and  at  the  same  moment 
I  stumbled  forward,  just  as  if  I  had  fallen,  throwing 
myself  on  my  hands  and  face,  for  I  had  seen  the  spark. 
It  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  on  my  hands  for  an  eternity, 
when  I  was  crushed  to  the  ground,  and  my  ears  split 
with  the  roar.  I  scrambled  to  my  feet  again,  gasping. 
Men  were  thrown  down  in  front  of  me,  and  were  getting 
up  on  their  hands.  I  heard  groans  and  cries,  and  shrieks 
behind  me.  I  turned  around;  as  I  turned  a  strong  arm 
was  thrust  through  mine,  and  I  heard  Lingg  say — 

"Come,  Rudolph,  this  way;"  and  he  drew  me  to  the 
sidewalk,  and  we  walked  past  where  the  police  had  been. 

"Don't  look,"  he  whispered  suddenly;  "don't  look." 


S84  The    Cry   for    Justice 

But  before  he  spoke  I  had  looked,  and  what  I  saw 
will  be  before  my  eyes  till  I  die.  The  street  was  one 
shambles;  in  the  very  center  of  it  a  great  pit  yawned, 
and  round  it  men  lying,  or  pieces  of  men,  in  every  direc- 
tion, and  close  to  me,  near  the  side-walk  as  I  passed,  a 
leg  and  foot  torn  off,  and  near  by  two  huge  pieces  of 
bleeding  red  meat,  skewered  together  with  a  thigh-bone. 
My  soul  sickened;  my  senses  left  me;  but  Lingg  held 
me  up  with  superhuman  strength,  and  drew  me  along. 

"Hold  yourself  up,  Rudolph,"  he  whispered;  "  come  on, 
man,"  and  the  next  moment  we  had  passed  it  all,  and 
I  clung  to  him,  trembling  like  a  leaf.  When  we  got  to 
the  end  of  the  block  I  realized  that  I  was  wet  through 
from  head  to  foot,  as  if  I  had  been  plunged  in  cold  water. 

"I  must  stop,"  I  gasped.     "I  cannot  walk,  Lingg." 

"Nonsense,"  he  said;  "take  a  drink  of  this,"  and  he 
thrust  a  flask  of  brandy  into  my  hand.  The  brandy 
I  poured  down  my  throat  set  my  heart  beating  again, 
allowed  me  to  breathe,  and  I  walked  on  with  him. 

"How  you  are  shaking,"  he  said.  "Strange,  you 
neurotic  people;  you  do  everything  perfectly,  splendidly, 
and  then  break  down  like  women.  Come,  I  am  not 
going  to  leave  you;  but  for  God's  sake  throw  off  that 
shaken,  white  look.     Drink  some  more." 

I  tried  to;  but  the  flask  was  empty.  He  put  it  back 
in  his  pocket. 

"  Here  is  the  bottle,"  he  said.  "  I  have  brought  enough ; 
but  we  must  get  to  the  depot." 

We  saw  fire  engines  with  poHce  on  them,  galloping  like 
madmen  in  the  direction  whence  we  had  come.  The 
streets  were  crowded  with  people,  talking,  gesticulating, 
like  actors.  Every  one  seemed  to  know  of  the  bomb 
already,  and  to  be  talking  about  it.     I  noticed  that  even 


Revolt  285 

here,  fully  a  block  away,  the  pavement  was  covered  with 
pieces  of  glass;  all  the  windows  had  been  broken  by  the 
explosion. 

As  we  came  in  front  of  the  depot,  just  before  we  passed 
into  the  full  glare  of  the  arc-lamps,  Lingg  said — 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  and  as  he  let  go  my  arm,  I 
almost  fell;  my  legs  were  like  German  sausages;  they 
felt  as  if  they  had  no  bones  in  them,  and  would  bend  in 
any  direction;  in  spite  of  every  effort  they  would  shake. 

"Come,  Rudolph,"  he  said,  "we'll  stop  and  talk;  but 
you  must  come  to  yourself.  Take  another  drink,  and 
think  of  nothing.  I  will  save  you;  you  are  too  good  to 
lose.     Come,  dear  friend,  don't  let  them  crow  over  us." 

My  heart  seemed  to  be  in  my  mouth,  but  I  swallowed 
it  down.  I  took  another  swig  of  brandy,  and  then  a 
long  drink  of  it.  It  might  have  been  water  for  all  I  tasted; 
but  it  seemed  to  do  me  some  little  good.  In  a  minute 
or  so  I  had  got  hold  of  myself. 

"I'm  all  right,"  I  said;   "what  is  there  to  do  now?" 

"Simply  to  go  through  the  depot,"  he  said,  "as  if  there 
were  nothing  the  matter,  and  take  the  train." 


BOOK  VI 

Martyrdom 


Messages  and  records  of  the  heroes  of  past  and  present  who 
have  sacrificed  themselves  for  the  sake  of  the  future. 


facial  lnteil& 

By  Vida  D.  Scuddeb 
(Professor  at  Wellesley  College,  Mass.;  born  1861) 

DEEPER  than  all  theories,  apart  from  all  discussion, 
the  mightv  instinct  for  social  justice  shapes  the 
hearts  that  are  ready  to  receive  it.  The  personal  types 
thus  created  are  the  harbingers  of  the  victory  of  the  cause 
of  freedom.  The  heralds  of  freedom,  they  are  also  its 
martyrs.  The  delicate  vibrations  of  their  consciousness 
thrill  through  the  larger  social  self  which  more  stohd 
people  still  ignore,  and  the  pain  of  the  world  is  their  own. 
Not  for  one  instant  can  they  know  an  undiimned  joy 
in  art,  in  thought,  in  nature  while  part  of  their  very  life 
throbs  in  the  hunger  of  the  dispossessed.  All  this  by  no 
virtue,  no  choice  of  their  own.  So  were  they  born:  the 
children  of  the  new  age,  whom  the  new  intuition  governs. 
In  every  country,  out  of  every  class,  they  gather:  men 
and  women  vowed  to  simplicity  of  life  and  to  social 
service;  possessed  by  a  force  mightier  than  themselves, 
over  which  they  have  no  control;  aware  of  the  lack  of 
social  harmony  in  our  civlHzation,  restless  with  pain, 
perplexity,  distress,  yet  filled  with  deep  inward  peace  as 
they  obey  the  imperative  claim  of  a  widened  conscious- 
ness. By  active  ministry,  and  yet  more  by  prayer  and 
fast  and  vigil,  they  seek  to  prepare  the  way  for  the 
spiritual  democracy  on  which  their  souls  are  set. 


19  (289) 


290  The    Cry   for    Justice 

He  -^ete  Return 

By  Charles-Louis  Philippe  ^ 

(A  poor  and  obscure  clerk  of  the  municipality  of  Paris,  1875-1909, 
who  wrote  seven  volumes  of  fiction  which  have  placed  his  name 
among  the  masters  of  French  literature.  He  wrote  of  the  poor 
whose  lives  he  knew,  and  his  work  is  characterized  by  fideUty  to  truth, 
beauty  of  sentiment,  and  rare  charm  of  style.  The  following  scene 
is  in  the  home  of  a  workingman,  who  by  heavy  sacrifice  has  suc- 
ceeded in  educating  his  only  son.  One  day  unexpectedly  the  son 
returns  home) 

piERRE  BOUSSET  said,  "How  does  it  happen  that 
■'■      you  come  to-day?" 

Jean  sat  down  with  slowness  enough,  and  one  saw 
yet  another  thing  sit  down  in  the  house.  The  mother 
said,  "I  guess  you  haven't  eaten.  I'll  make  a  little 
chocolate  before  noon-time." 

Jean's  tongue  was  loosed.  "Here  it  is.  There  is  some- 
thing new.  It  is  necessary  to  tell  you:  I  have  left  my 
place!" 

"How!  You  have  left  your  place!"  They  sat  up  all 
three — Pierre  Bousset  with  his  apron  and  his  back  of 
labor;  and  Jean  saw  that  he  had  gray  hair.  The  mother 
held  a  saucepan  in  her  hand,  careful  like  a  kitchen-servant, 
but  with  feelings  as  if  the  saucepan  were  about  to  fall. 
Marguerite,  the  sister,  was  already  weeping:  "Ah,  my 
God!  I  who  was  so  proud!" 

Pierre  Bousset  said,  "v^d  how  did  you  manage  that 
clever  stroke?" 

It  was  then  that  Jean  felt  his  soul  wither,  and  there 
rose  up  from  the  depths  of  his  heart  all  the  needs,  all  the 
mists  of  love.  It  was  necessary  that  they  should  live 
side  by  side  and  understand  one  another,  and  it  was 


M  artyrdom  291 

necessary  that  someone  should  begin  to  weaken.  He 
said,  "Does  one  ever  know  what  one  does?" 

"Ah,  indeed!"  said  the  father.  "You  don't  know 
what  you  do?" 

"There  are  moments,"  answered  Jean,  "when  one 
loses  his  head,  and  afterwards  I  don't  say  one  should 
not  have  regrets." 

"For  the  matter  of  losing  one's  head,  I  know  only 
one  thing:  It  is  that  they  pay  you,  and  it  is  up  to  you 
always  to  obey  whatever  they  command." 

The  mother  watched  the  chocolate,  from  which  the 
steam  rose  with  a  warmth  of  strong  nutriment.  They 
loved  that  in  the  family,  like  a  Sunday  morning  indul- 
gence, like  a  bourgeois  chocolate  for  holiday  folk.  She 
said,  "Anyhow,  let  it  be  as  it  will,  he's  got  to  eat." 

Jean  went  on  to  speak.  His  blue  eyes  had  undergone 
the  first  transformation  which  comes  in  a  man's  life, 
when  he  is  no  longer  Jean,  son  of  Pierre,  pupil  at  the 
Central  school,  but  Jean  Bousset,  engineer  of  applied 
chemistry.  There  remained  in  them,  however,  the  shin- 
ing of  a  young  girl,  that  emotion  which  wakens  two  rays 
of  sunlight  in  a  spring.  And  now  they  kept  a  sort  of 
supplication,  like  the  sweetness  of  a  naked  infant. 

"Oh,  I  know  everything  that  you  are  going  to  say. 
You  cannot  excuse  me,  because  you  are  not  in  my  place, 
and  I  cannot  condemn  a  movement  of  my  heart.  You 
know — I  wrote  it  to  you — ^the  workers  were  about  to  go 
on  strike.  At  once  I  said  to  myself  that  these  were  mat- 
ters which  did  not  concern  me;  because,  when  you  are 
taking  care  of  yourself,  it  is  not  necessary  to  look  any 
farther.     But  Cousin  Frangois  explained  it  all  to  me." 

"Ah,  I  told  you  so!"  cried  Pierre  Bousset.  "When 
you  wanted  to  take  Cousin  Frangois  into  your  factory. 


^92  The    Cry   for    Justice 

I  said  to  you:  'Relatives,  it  is  necessary  always  to  keep 
them  at  a  distance.  They  push  themselves  forward,  and 
sometimes,  to  excuse  them  one  is  led  to  commit  whole 
heaps  of  lowness.'  " 

"In  truth,"  said  Jean,  "I  would  never  have  had  to 
complain  of  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  wore  his  heart 
on  his  sleeve." 

"Oh,  all  drunkards  are  Hke  that.  One  says:  'They 
wear  their  hearts  on  their  sleeve,'  and  one  does  not  count 
all  the  times  when  they  lead  the  others  away." 

"Ah,  I  have  understood  many  things,  father.  How 
can  I  explain  everjrthing  that  I  have  understood!  There 
are  moments  still  when,  to  see  and  to  realize — ^that  makes 
in  my  head  a  noise  as  if  the  world  would  not  stay  in  place. 
I  tell  you  again  it  was  rran9ois  who  made  me  understand. 
I  saw,  in  the  evenings.  I  would  say  to  him:  'I  am 
bored,  I  haven't  even  a  comrade,  and  I  eat  at  hotel- 
tables  a  dinner  too  well  served.'  He  said:  'Come  to  my 
house.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  eat  good  things, 
because  you  don't  work,  and  because  hunger  makes  a 
part  of  work.  You  will  have  some  soup  with  us,  and 
we  will  tell  you  at  least  that  you  are  happy  to  be  where 
you  are,  and  to  look  upon  the  workingman  while  playing 
the  amateur.'  I  said  to  him:  'But  I  work,  also.  To  see, 
to  understand,  to  analyze,  to  be  an  engineer!  You,  it's 
your  arms;  me,  it's  my  head  and  my  heart  that  ache.' 
He  laughed:  'Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  When  I  come  home 
in  the  evening  with  my  throat  dry  and  I  eat  my  soup, 
I  also  have  a  headache,  and  I  laugh  at  you  with  your 
heart-ache.  I  am  as  tired  as  a  wolf.  What's  that  you 
call  your  heart?'  " 

"Yes,  he  was  right  there,"  said  Pierre  Bousset.  "For 
my  part,  I  don't  understand  at  all  how  you  are  going 


Martyrdom  293 

to  pull  through.  You  have  understood  a  lot  of  things! 
As  for  me,  I  understand  but  one  thing,  which  is  you  are 
unhappy  over  being  too  happy." 

Jean  went  on  speaking,  with  his  blue  eyes,  like  a  mad- 
ness, like  a  ribbon,  like  a  rosette  without  any  reason 
which  a  young  girl  puts  on  her  forehead.  A  sweetness 
came  out  of  his  heart  to  spread  itself  in  the  room,  where 
the  furniture  gave  off  angular  and  waxy  reflections. 
Marguerite  listened,  with  restlessness,  listened  to  her 
father,  like  a  child  whose  habit  it  is  to  be  guided  by  her 
parents.  The  mother  saw  to  the  chocolate,  in  a  state  of 
confusion,  shaking  her  head. 

"Yesterday  I  was  in  the  ofSce  of  the  superintendent. 
It  was  then  that  the  delegation  arrived.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  see  them  again.  There  were  three  workingmen. 
They  had  taken  to  white  shirts,  and  they  had  just  washed 
their  hands.  You  know  how  the  poor  come  into  the  homes 
of  the  rich.  There  was  a  great  racket,  and  their  steps 
were  put  down  with  so  much  embarrassment  that  one  felt 
in  the  hearts  of  the  three  men  the  shame  of  crushed  things. 
I  had  already  thought  about  that  poverty  which,  knowing 
that  it  soils,  hides  itself,  and  dares  not  even  touch  an 
object.  They  said:  'Well,  Mr.  Superintendent,  we  have 
been  sent  to  talk  to  you.  For  more  than  ten  years  now 
we  have  worked  in  the  factory.  We  get  seventy  cents 
a  day.  That's  not  much  to  tell  about.  We  have  wives 
and  children,  and  our  seventy  cents  hardly  carries  us 
farther  than  a  glass  of  brandy  and  a  little  plate  of  soup. 
We  understand  that  you  also  have  expenses.  But  we 
should  like  to  get  eighty  cents  a  day,  and  for  us  to  explain 
every  thing  to  you,  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  con- 
sent, because  money  gives  courage  to  the  workingman.' 
The  other  received  them  with  that  assurance  of  the  rich, 


29/i.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

sitting  straight  up  in  his  chair  and  holding  his  head  as 
if  it  dominated  your  own.  He  would  not  have  had  much 
trouble,  with  his  education,  his  habits  of  a  master,  his 
stability  as  a  man  of  affairs,  to  put  them  all  three  ill  at 
ease.  'Gentlemen,  from  the  first  word  I  say  to  you: 
No.  The  company  cannot  take  account  of  your  wishes. 
We  pay  you  seventy  cents  a  day,  and  we  judge  that  it 
is  up  to  you  to  lower  your  life  to  your  wages.  As  for 
your  insinuations,  I  shall  employ  such  means  as  please 
me  to  fortify  your  courage.  For  the  rest,  our  profits 
are  not  what  you  imagine,  you  who  know  neither  our 
efforts  nor  our  disappointments.'  It  was  then,  father, 
that  I  felt  myself  your  son,  and  that  I  recalled  your 
hands,  your  back  which  toils,  and  the  carriage  wheels 
that  you  make.  The  three  workingmen  seemed  three 
children  in  their  father's  home,  with  hearts  that  swell 
and  can  feel  no  more.  Ah,  it  was  in  vain  I  thought 
myself  an  engineer!  On  the  benches  of  the  school  I 
imagined  that  my  head  was  full  of  science,  and  that  that 
sufficed.  But  all  the  blood  of  my  father,  the  days  that 
I  passed  in  your  shop,  the  storms  which  go  to  one's  head 
and  seem  to  come  from  far  off,  all  that  cried  out  like  a 
grimace,  like  a  lock,  like  a  key.*  I  took  up  the  argument. 
'Mr.  Superintendent,  I  know  these  men.  There  is  my 
cousin  who  works  in  the  factory.  Do  you  imderstand 
what  it  is,  the  hfe  of  acids,  and  that  of  charcoal?'  If 
you  could  have  seen  him!  He  looked  at  me  with  eyes, 
as  if  their  pupils  had  turned  to  ice.  'Mr.  Engineer,  I 
don't  permit  either  you,  who  are  a  child,  or  these,  who 
are  workingmen,  a  single  word  to  discuss  my  sayings 
and  my  actions!  Gentlemen,  you  may  retire.'  I  went 
straight  off  the  handle.     A  door  opened  at  a  single  burst. 

*  Tout  cela  criait  comme  une  grimace,  comme  une  serrure,  comme  une  cl6. 


-^ 

t: 

ni 

5    3 

w 

H 

A 

>  s 

O 

It" 

Si 

^     =: 

r 

=:i     --i 

-     cc- 

S"  ? 

N 

s 

a 

s 

M  artyrdom  295 

We  have  at  least  insolence,  we  poor,  and  blows  of  the 
mouth,  since  their  weapons  stop  our  blows  of  the  teeth. 
I  went  away  like  them.  They  lowered  their  heads  and 
thought.  For  my  part  I  cried  out,  I  turned  about  and 
cried,  'You  be  hanged!'  " 

"Ah,  now,  indeed!  I  didn't  expect  anything  like 
that,"  said  Pierre  Bousset.  "One  raises  children  to  make 
gentle-folk  of  them,  so  that  they  will  work  a  little  less 
than  you.  Now  then,  in  God's  name!  go  and  demand 
a  place  of  those  for  whom  you  have  lost  your  own!" 


By  Henry  David  Thoreau 

(The  New  England  essayist,  1817-1862,  author  of  "Walden," 
went  to  prison  because  he  refused  to  pay  taxes  to  a  government 
which  returned  fugitive  slaves  to  the  South.  It  is  narrated  that 
Emerson  came  to  him  and  asked,  "Henry,  what  are  you  doing  in 
here?"  "Waldo,"  was  the  answer,  "what  ai-e  you  doing  out  of 
here?") 

T  TNDER  a  government  which  imprisons  any  unjustly, 
^^  the  true  place  for  a  just  man  is  also  a  prison.  The 
proper  place  today,  the  only  place  which  Massachusetts 
has  provided  for  her  freer  and  less  desponding  spirits, 
is  in  her  prisons,  to  be  put  out  and  locked  out  of  the 
State  by  her  own  act,  as  they  have  already  put  them- 
selves out  by  their  principles.  It  is  there  that  the  fugi- 
tive slave,  and  the  Mexican  prisoner  on  parole,  and  the 
Indian  come  to  plead  the  wrongs  of  his  race,  should  find 
them;  on  that  separate  but  more  free  and  honorable 
ground,  where  the  State  places  those  who  are  not  with 


298  The    Cry   for    Justice 

say,  the  ethical  part  of  this  question?  What  about  the 
human  and  humane  part  of  our  ideas?  What  about  the 
grand  condition  of  tomorrow  as  we  see  it,  and  as  we 
foretell  it  now  to  the  workers  at  large,  here  in  this  same 
cage  where  the  felon  has  sat,  in  this  same  cage  where  the 
drunkard,  where  the  prostitute,  where  the  hired  assassin 
has  been?  What  about  the  better  and  nobler  humanity 
where  there  shall  be  no  more  slaves,  where  no  man  will 
ever  be  obliged  to  go  on  strike  in  order  to  obtain  fifty 
cents  a  week  more,  where  children  will  not  have  to  starve 
any  more,  where  women  no  more  will  have  to  go  and 
prostitute  themselves;  where  at  last  there  will  not  be 
any  more  slaves,  any  more  masters,  but  one  great  family 
of  friends  and  brothers.  It  may  be,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  that  you  do  not  believe  in  that.  It  may  be  that 
we  are  dreamers;  it  may  be  that  we  are  fanatics,  Mr. 
District  Attorney.  But  so  was  a  fanatic  Socrates,  who 
instead  of  acknowledging  the  philosophy  of  the  aristocrats 
of  Athens,  preferred  to  drink  the  poison.  And  so  was  a 
fanatic  the  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  who  instead  of  acknowl- 
edging that  Pilate,  or  that  Tiberius  was  emperor  of  Rome, 
and  instead  of  acknowledging  his  submission  to  all  the 
rulers  of  the  time  and  all  the  priestcraft  of  the  time,  pre- 
ferred the  cross  between  two  thieves. 


By  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe 
(German  philosopher  and  poet,  1749-1832) 

A  LL  those  who  oppose  intellectual  truths  merely  stir 
-^^  up  the  fire;  the  cinders  fly  about  and  set  fire  to 
that  which  else  they  had  not  touched. 


y 


Martyrdom  299 

C00ap  on  Efftmp 

By  John  Stuart  Mill 
(English  philosopher  and  economistj  1806-1873) 

MANKIND  can  hardly  be  too  often  reminded,  that 
there  was  once  a  man  named  Socrates,  between 
whom  and  the  legal  authorities  and  pubhc  opinion  of  his 
time,  there  took  place  a  memorable  collision.  Born  in 
an  age  and  country  abounding  in  individual  greatness, 
this  man  has  been  handed  down  to  us  by  those  who  best 
knew  both  him  and  the  age,  as  the  most  virtuous  man 
in  it;  while  we  know  him  as  the  head  and  prototype 
of  all  subsequent  teachers  of  virtue,  the  source  equally 
of  the  lofty  inspiration  of  Plato  and  the  judicious  utili- 
tarianism of  Aristotle,  the  two  headsprings  of  ethical  as 
of  all  other  philosophy.  This  acknowledged  master  of 
all  the  eminent  thinkers  who  have  since  lived — ^whose 
fame,  still  growing  after  more  than  two  thousand  years, 
all  but  outweighs  the  whole  remainder  of  the  names  which 
make  his  native  city  illustrious — ^was  put  to  death  by 
his  countrymen,  after  a  judicial  conviction,  for  impiety 
and  immorality.  Impiety,  in  denying  the  Gods  recog- 
nized by  the  State;  indeed  his  accusers  asserted  (see  the 
"Apologia")  that  he  believed  in  no  gods  at  all.  Imiporal- 
ity,  in  being,  by  his  doctrines  and  instructions,  a  "cor- 
rupter of  youth."  Of  these  charges  the  tribunal,  there 
is  every  ground  for  believing,  honestly  found  him  guilty, 
and  condemned  the  man  who  probably  of  all  then  born 
had  deserved  best  of  mankind,  to  be  put  to  death  as  a 
criminal 


300  The    Cry   for    Justice 


S 


From  The  Epistle  of  James 

0  speak  ye,  and  so  do,  as  they  that  shall  be  judged  by 
the  law  of  liberty. 


By  Abturo  M.  Giovannitti 
(See  page  296) 

T   HEAR  footsteps  over  my  head  all  night. 

^     They  come  and  they  go.     Again  they  come  and  they 
go  all  night. 

They  come  one  eternity  in  four  paces  and  they  go  one 
eternity  in  four  paces,  and  between  the  coming  and  the 
going  there  is  Silence  and  the  Night  and  the  Infinite. 

For  infinite  are  the  nine  feet  of  a  prison  cell,  and  end- 
less is  the  march  of  him  who  walks  between  the  yellow 
brick  wall  and  the  red  iron  gate,  thinking  things  that 
cannot  be  chained  and  cannot  be  locked,  but  that  wander 
far  away  in  the  sunlit  world,  each  in  a  -wild  pilgrimage 
after  a  destined  goal. 

Throughout  the  restless  night  I  hear  the  footsteps  over 
my  head. 

Who  walks?  I  know  not.  It  is  the  phantom  of  the 
jail,  the  sleepless  brain,  a  man,  the  man,  the  Walker. 

One — two — three — four :  four  paces  and  the  wall. 

One — two — three — four:  four  paces  and  the  iron  gate. 

He  has  measured  his  space,  he  has  measured  it  accu- 
rately, scrupulously,  minutely,  as  the  hangman  measures 
the  rope  and  the  grave-digger  the  cofirn — so  many  feet. 


M  artyrdom  301 

so  many  inches,  so  many  fractions  of  an  inch  for  each  of 
the  fom-  .paces. 

One — two — three — four.  Each  step  sounds  heavy  and 
hollow  over  my  head,  and  the  echo  of  each  step  sounds 
hollow  within  my  head  as  I  count  them  in  suspense  and 
in  dread  that  once,  perhaps,  in  the  endless  walk,  there 
may  be  five  steps  instead  of  four  between  the  yellow 
brick  wall  and  the  red  iron  gate. 

But  he  has  measured  the  space  so  accurately,  so 
scrupulously,  so  minutely  that  nothing  breaks  the  grave 
rhythm  of  the  slow,  fantastic  march.  .  .  . 

All  the  sounds  of  the  living  beings  and  inanimate 
things,  and  all  the  noises  of  the  night  I  have  heard  in  my 
wistful  vigil. 

I  have  heard  the  moans  of  him  who  bewails  a  thing 
that  is  dead  and  the  sighs  of  him  who  tries  to  smother 
a  thing  that  will  not  die; 

I  have  heard  the  stifled  sobs  of  the  one  who  weeps  with 
his  head  under  the  coarse  blanket,  and  the  whisperings 
of  the  one  who  prays  with  his  forehead  on  the  hard,  cold 
stone  of  the  floor; 

I  have  heard  him  who  laughs  the  shrill,  sinister  laugh 
of  folly  at  the  horror  rampant  on  the  yellow  wall  and  at 
the  red  eyes  of  the  nightmare  glaring  through  the  iron 
bars; 

I  have  heard  in  the  sudden  icy  silence  him  who  coughs 
a  dry,  ringing  cough,  and  wished  madly  that  his  throat 
would  not  rattle  so  and  that  he  would  not  spit  on  the 
floor,  for  no  sound  was  more  atrocious  than  that  of  his 
sputum  upon  the  floor; 

I  have  heard  him  who  swears  fearsome  oaths  which  I 
listen  to  in  reverence  and  awe,  for  they  are  holier  than 
the  virgin's  prayer; 


SOS  The    Cry   for    Justice 

And  I  have  heard,  most  terrible  of  all,  the  silence  of 

two  hundred  brains  all  possessed  by  one  single,  relentless, 

unforgiving,  desperate  thought. 
All  this  I  have  heard  in  the  watchful  Dight, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  wind  beyond  the  walls. 
And  the  tolls  of  a  distant  bell. 
And  the  woeful  dirge  of  the  rain. 
And  the  remotest  echoes  of  the  sorrowful  city, 
And  the  terrible  beatings,  wild  beatings,  mad  beatings 

of  the  One  Heart  which  is  nearest  to  my  heart. 
All  this  have  I  heard  in  the  still  night; 
But  nothing  is  louder,  harder,  drearier,  mightier,  more 

awful   than   the   footsteps   I    hear    over    my   head    all 

night.  .  .  . 

All  through  the  night  he  walks  and  he  thinks.  Is  it 
more  frightful  because  he  walks  and  his  footsteps  sound 
hollow  over  my  head,  or  because  he  thinks  and  speaks 
not  his  thoughts? 

But  does  he  think?  Why  should  he  think?  Do  I  think? 
I  only  hear  the  footsteps  and  count  them.  Four  steps 
and  the  wall.  Four  steps  and  the  gate.  But  beyond? 
Beyond?     Where  goes  he  beyond  the  gate  and  the  wall? 

He  does  not  go  beyond.  His  thought  breaks  there  on 
the  iron  gate.  Perhaps  ic  breaks  like  a  wave  of  rage, 
perhaps  like  a  sudden  flow  of  hope,  but  it  always  returns 
to  beat  the  wall  like  a  billow  of  helplessness  and  despair. 

He  walks  to  and  fro  within  the  narrow  whirlpit  of  this 
ever  storming  and  furious  thought.  Only  one  thought — 
constant,  fixed,  immovable,  smister,  without  power  and 
without  voice. 

A  thought  of  madness,  frenzy,  agony  and  despair,  a 
hell-brewed  thought,  for  it  is  a  natural  thought.      All 


Martyrdom  SOS 

things  natural  are  things  impossible  while  there  are  jails 
in  the  world — bread,  work,  happiness,  peace,  love. 

But  he  thinks  not  of  this.  As  he  walks  he  thinks  of 
the  most  superhuman,  the  most  unattainable,  the  most 
impossible  thing  in  the  world: 

He  thinks  of  a  small  brass  key  that  turns  just  half 
around  and  throws  open  the  red  iron  gate. 

That  is  all  the  Walker  thinks,  as  he  walks  throughout 
the  night. 

And  that  is  what  two  hundred  minds  drowned  in  the 
darkness  and  the  silence  of  the  night  think,  and  that  is 
also  what  I  think. 

Wonderful  is  the  supreme  wisdom  of  the  jail  that  makes 
all  think  the  same  thought.  Marvelous  is  the  providence 
of  the  law  that  equalizes  all,  even  in  mind  and  sentiment. 
Fallen  is  the  last  barrier  of  privilege,  the  aristocracy  of 
the  intellect.  The  democracy  of  reason  has  leveled  all 
the  two  hundred  minds  to  the  common  surface  of  the 
same  thought. 

I,  who  have  never  killed,  think  like  the  murderer; 

I,  who  have  never  stolen,  reason  like  the  thief; 

I  think,  reason,  wish,  hope,  doubt,  wait  like  the  hired 
assassin,  the  embezzler,  the  forger,  the  counterfeiter,  the 
incestuous,  the  raper,  the  drunkard,  the  prostitute,  the 
pimp,  I,  I  who  used  to  think  of  love  and  life  and  flowers 
and  song  and  beauty  and  the  ideal. 

A  little  key,  a  little  key  as  little  as  my  little  finger,  a 
little  key  of  shining  brass. 

All  my  ideas,  my  thoughts,  my  dreams  are  congealed  in 
a  little  key  of  shiny  brass. 

All  my  brain,  all  my  soul,  all  the  suddenly  surging 
latent  powers  of  my  deepest  life  are  in  the  pocket  of  a 
white-haired  man  dressed  in  blue. 


304  The    Cry   for    Justice 

He  is  great,  powerful,  formidable,  the  man  wit)>  the 
white  hair,  for  he  has  in  his  pocket  the  mighty  talisman 
which  makes  one  man  cry,  and  one  man  pray,  and  one 
laugh,  and  one  cough,  and  one  walk,  and  all  keep  awa-x^e 
and  listen  and  think  the  same  maddening  thought. 

Greater  than  all  men  is  the  man  with  the  white  hair 
and  the  small  brass  key,  for  no  other  man  in  the  world 
could  compel  two  hundred  men  to  think  for  so  long  the 
same  thought.  Surely  when  the  light  breaks  I  will  write 
a  hymn  unto  him  which  shall  hail  him  greater  than 
Mohammed  and  Arbues  and  Torquemada  and  Mesmer, 
and  all  the  other  masters  of  other  men's  thoughts.  I 
shall  call  him  Almighty,  for  he  holds  everything  of  all 
and  of  me  in  a  little  brass  key  in  his  pocket. 

Everything  of  me  he  holds  but  the  branding  iron  of 
contempt  and  the  claymore  of  hatred  for  the  monstrous 
cabala  that  can  make  the  apostle  and  the  murderer,  the 
poet  and  the  procurer,  think  of  the  same  gate,  the  same 
key  and  the  same  exit  on  the  different  sunlit  highways  of 
Ufe. 

My  brother,  do  not  walk  any  more. 

It  is  wrong  to  walk  on  a  grave.  It  is  a  sacrilege  to 
walk  four  steps  from  the  headstone  to  the  foot  and  four 
steps  from  the  foot  to  the  headstone. 

If  you  stop  walking,  my  brother,  no  longer  will  this 
be  a  grave,  for  you  will  give  me  back  that  mind  that  is 
chained  to  your  feet  and  the  right  to  think  my  own 
thoughts. 

I  implore  you,  my  brother,  for  I  am  weary  of  the  long 
vigil,  weary  of  counting  your  steps,  and  heavy  with  sleep. 

Stop,  rest,  sleep,  my  brother,  for  the  dawn  is  well  nigh 
and  it  is  not  the  key  alone  that  can  throw  open  the  gate. 


Martyrdom  306 

By  Geobge  Washington 
(First  president  of  the  United  States,  1732-1799) 

/^~^OVERNMENT  is  not  reason,  it  is  not  eloquence — it 
^^  is  force!  Like  fire  it  is  a  dangerous  servant  and  a 
fearful  master;  never  for  a  moment  should  it  be  left  to 
irresponsible  action. 


(From  "The  Suffragette") 

By  E.  Sylvia  Pankhurst 
(English  militant  leader) 

Che  was  then  surrounded  and  held  down,  whilst  the 
^— '  chair  was  tilted  backwards.  She  clenched  her  teeth, 
but  the  doctor  pulled  her  mouth  away  to  form  a  pouch 
and  the  wardress  poured  in  milk  and  brandy,  some  of 
which  trickled  in  through  the  crevices.  Later  in  the 
day  the  doctors  and  wardresses  again  appeared.  They 
forced  her  down  on  to  the  bed  and  held  her  there.  One 
of  the  doctors  then  produced  a  tube  two  yards  in  length 
with  a  glass  junction  in  the  center  and  a  funnel  at  one 
end.  He  forced  the  other  end  of  the  tube  up  her  nostril, 
hurting  her  so  terribly  that  the  matron  and  two  of  the 
wardresses  burst  into  tears  and  the  second  doctor  inter- 
fered. At  last  the  tube  was  pushed  down  into  the 
stomach.  She  felt  the  pain  of  it  to  the  end  of  the  breast 
bone.  Then  one  of  the  doctors  stood  upon  a  chair 
holding  the  funnel  end  of  the  tube  at  arm's  length,  and 
poured  food  down  whilst  the  wardress  and  the  other 
doctor  all  gripped  her  tight.      She  felt  as  thougK  she 

20 


306  The    Cry   for    Justice 

would  suffocate.  There  was  a  rushing,  burning  sensation 
in  her  head,  the  drxims  of  her  ears  seemed  to  be  bursting. 
The  agony  of  pain  in  the  throat  and  breast  bone  con- 
tinued. The  thing  seemed  to  go  on  for  hours.  When  at 
last  the  tube  was  withdrawn,  she  felt  as  though  all  the 
back  of  her  nose  and  throat  were  being  torn  out  with  it. 
Then  almost  fainting  she  was  carried  back  to  the 
punishment  cell  and  put  to  bed.  For  hours  the  pain  in 
the  chest,  nose  and  ears  continued  and  she  felt  terribly 
sick  and  faint.  Day  after  day  the  struggle  continued; 
she  used  no  violence,  but  each  time  resisted  and  was  over- 
come by  force  of  numbers.  Often  she  vomited  during 
the  operation.  When  the  food  did  not  go  down  quickly 
enough  the  doctor  pinched  her  nose  with  the  tube  in  it, 
causing  her  even  greater  pain. 


%^e  Subjection  of  ^omm 

By  John  Stuart  Mill 
(See  pages  199,  299) 

T  N  struggles  for  political  emancipation,  everybody 
^  knows  how  often  its  champions  are  bought  off  by  bribes, 
or  daimted  by  terrors.  In  the  case  of  women,  each 
individual  of  the  subject  class  is  in  a  chronic  state  of 
bribery  and  intimidation  combined.  In  setting  up  the 
standard  of  resistance,  a  large  number  of  the  leaders,  and 
still  more  of  the  followers,  must  make  an  almost  complete 
sacrifice  of  the  pleasures  or  the  alleviations  of  their  own 
individual  lot.  If  ever  any  system  of  privilege  and  en- 
forced subjection  had  its  yoke  tightly  riveted  on  the  necks 
of  those  who  are  kept  down  by  it,  this  has. 


Martyrdom  307 

By  Margaret  Widdemer 
(See  page  256) 

Che  could  have  loved — her  woman-passions  beat 
^^     Deeper  than  theirs,  or  else  she  had  not  known 
How  to  have  dropped  her  heart  beneath  their  feet 
A  living  stepping-stone: 

The  httle  hands — did  they  not  clutch  her  heart? 

The  guarding  arms — was  she  not  very  tired? 
Was  it  an  easy  thing  to  walk  apart, 

Unresting,  undesired? 

She  gave  away  her  crown  of  woman-praise, 
Her  gentleness  and  silent  girlhood  grace 

To  be  a  merriment  for  idle  days, 
Scorn  for  the  market-place: 

She  strove  for  an  unvisioned,  far-off  good, 
For  one  far  hope  she  knew  she  should  not  see : 

These — not  her  daughters — crowned  with  motherhood 
And  love  and  beauty — free. 


308  The    Cry   for    Justice 

CSomff  to  tSe  people 

{From  "Memoirs  of  a  Revolutionist") 
By  Peteh  Kropotkin 

(The  Russian  author  and  scientist,  born   1842,  who  renounced   the 

title  of  prince  and  spent  many  years  in  a  dungeon  for 

his  faith,  has  here  told  his  life  story) 

"  T  T  is  bitter,  the  bread  that  has  been  made  by  slaves," 
■'■  our  poet  Nekrasoff  wrote.  The  young  generation 
actually  refused  to  eat  that  bread,  and  to  enjoy  the  riches 
that  had  been  accumulated  in  their  fathers'  houses  by 
means  of  servile  labor,  whether  the  laborers  were  actual 
serfs  or  slaves  of  the  present  industrial  system. 

All  Russia  read  with  astonishment,  in  the  indictment 
which  was  produced  at  the  court  against  Karakozoff  and 
his  friends,  that  these  young  men,  owners  of  considerable 
fortunes,  used  to  live  three  or  four  in  the  same  room, 
never  spending  more  than  ten  roubles  (five  dollars)  apiece 
a  month  for  all  their  needs,  and  giving  at  the  same  time 
their  fortunes  for  co-operative  associations,  co-operative 
workshops  (where  they  themselves  worked),  and  the  like. 
Five  years  later,  thousands  and  thousands  of  the  Russian 
youth — the  best  part  of  it — ^were  doing  the  same.  Their 
watch-word  was,  "V  narod!"  (To  the  people;  be  the 
people.)  During  the  years  1860-65  in  nearly  every 
wealthy  family  a  bitter  struggle  was  going  on  between 
the  fathers,  who  wanted  to  maintain  the  old  traditions, 
and  the  sons  and  daughters,  who  defended  their  right  to 
dispose  of  their  life  according  to  their  own  ideals.  Young 
men  left  the  mihtary  service,  the  counter  and  the  shop,  and 
flocked  to  the  university  towns.  Girls,  bred  in  the  most 
aristocratic  families,  rushed  penniless  to  St.  Petersburg, 


Martyrdom  309 

Moscow,  and  Kieff,  eager  to  learn  a  profession  which 
would  free  them  from  the  domestic  yoke,  and  some  day, 
perhaps,  also  from  the  possible  yoke  of  a  husband.  After 
hard  and  bitter  struggles,  many  of  them  won  that  per- 
sonal freedom.  Now  they  wanted  to  utilize  it,  not  for 
their  own  personal  enjoyment,  but  for  carrying  to  the 
people  the  knowledge  that  had  emancipated  them. 

In  every  town  of  Russia,  in  every  quarter  of  St.  Peters- 
burg, small  groups  were  formed  for  self-improvement 
and  self -education ;  the  works  of  the  philosophers,  the 
writings  of  the  economists,  the  researches  of  the  young 
Russian  historical  school,  were  carefully  read  in  these 
circles,  and  the  reading  was  followed  by  endless  discus- 
sions. The  aim  of  all  that  reading  and  discussion  was 
to  solve  the  great  question  which  rose  before  them:  In 
what  way  could  they  be  useful  to  the  masses?  Gradually, 
they  came  to  the  idea  that  the  only  way  was  to  settle 
among  the  people  and  to  live  the  people's  life.  Young 
men  went  into  the  villages  as  doctors,  doctors'  assistants, 
teachers,  village  scribes,  even  as  agricultural  laborers, 
blacksmiths,  woodcutters,  and  so  on,  and  tried  to  hve 
there  in  closest  contact  with  the  peasants.  Girls  passed 
teachers'  examinations,  learned  midwifery  or  nursing,  and 
went  by  the  himdred  into  the  villages,  devoting  them- 
selves entirely  to  the  poorest  part  of  the  population.  .  .  . 

Here  and  there,  small  groups  of  propagandists  had 
settled  in  towns  and  villages  in  various  capacities.  Black- 
smiths' shops  and  small  farms  had  been  started,  and 
young  men  of  the  wealthier  classes  worked  in  the  shops 
or  on  the  farms,  to  be  in  daily  contact  with  the  toihng 
masses.  At  Moscow,  a  number  of  young  girls,  of  rich 
families,  who  had  studied  at  the  Zurich  university  and 
had  started  a  separate  organization,  went  even  so  far 


310  The    Cry   for    Justice 

as  to  enter  cotton  factories,  where  they  worked  from 
fourteen  to  sixteen  hours  a  day,  and  lived  in  the  factory 
barracks  the  miserable  life  of  the  Russian  factory  girls. 
It  was  a  grand  movement,  in  which,  at  the  lowest  esti- 
mate, from  two  to  three  thousand  persons  took  an  active 
part,  while  twice  or  thrice  as  many  sympathizers  and 
supporters  helped  the  active  vanguard  in  various  ways. 
With  a  good  half  of  that  army  our  St.  Petersburg  circle 
was  in  regular  correspondence — ^always,  of  course,  in 
cipher. 

The  literature  which  could  be  published  in  Russia 
under  a  rigorous  censorship — the  faintest  hint  of  Socialism 
being  prohibited — was  soon  found  insufficient,  and  we 
started  a  printing  office  of  our  own  abroad.  Pamphlets 
for  the  workers  and  the  peasants  had  to  be  written,  and 
our  small  "literary  committee,"  of  which  I  was  a  mem- 
ber, had  its  hands  full  of  work.  Serghei  wrote  a  couple 
of  such  pamphlets — one  in  the  Lammenais  style,  and 
another  containing  an  exposition  of  Socialism  in  a  fairy 
tale — and  both  had  a  wide  circulation.  The  books  and 
pamphlets  which  were  printed  abroad  were  smuggled 
into  Russia  by  thousands,  stored  at  certain  spots,  and 
sent  out  to  the  local  circles,  which  distributed  them 
amongst  the  peasants  and  the  workers.  All  this  required 
a  vast  organization  as  well  as  much  traveling  about, 
and  a  colossal- correspondence,  particularly  for  protecting 
our  helpers  and  our  bookstores  from  the  police.  We  had 
special  ciphers  for  different  provincial  circles,  and  often, 
after  six  or  seven  hours  had  been  passed  in  discussing  all 
details,  the  women,  who  did  not  trust  to  our  accuracy 
in  the  cipher  correspondence,  spent  all  the  night  in  cover- 
ing sheets  of  paper  with  cabalistic  figures  and  fractions. 


M  artyrdom  311 

'arte  iatt)olutionf0t 

By  Ivan  Turgenev 

(Russian  writer,  1818-1883,  one  of  the  masters  of  the  novel  form. 
He  was  imprisoned  and  later  exiled.  In  the  original  the  present 
extract  is  a  prose  poem.      The  versification  is  by  Arthur  Guiterman) 

T    SAW  a  spacious  house.     O'erhung  with  pall, 
■'■     A  narrow  doorway  pierced  the  sombre  wall. 
Within  was  chill,  impenetrable  shade; 
Without  there  stood  a  maid — a  Russian  maid, 
To  whom  the  icy  dark  sent  forth  a  slow 
And  hollow-sounding  Voice : 

"And  dost  thou  know. 
When  thou  hast  entered,  what  awaits  thee  here?" 
"I  know,"  she  said,  "and  knowing  do  not  fear." 
"Cold,  hunger,  hatred.  Slander's  bhghting  breath," 
The  Voice  still  chanted,  "suffering — and  Death?" 
"I  know,"  she  said. 

"Undaunted,  wilt  thou  dare 
The  sneers  of  kindred?    Art  thou  steeled  to  bear 
From  those  whom  most  thou  lovest,  spite  and  scorn?" 
"Though  Love  be  paid  with  Hate,  that  shall  be  borne," 
She  answered. 

"Think!  Thy  doom  may  be  to  die 
By  thine  own  hand,  with  none  to  fathom  why, 
Unthanked,  unhonored,  desolate,  alone, 
Thy  grave  unmarked,  thy  toil,  thy  love  unknown, 
And  none  in  days  to  come  shall  speak  thy  name." 
She  said:  "I  ask  no  pity,  thanks  or  fame." 
"Art  thou  prepared  for  crime?" 


S12  The    Cry   for    J ustici 

She  bowed  her  head : 
"Yes,  crime,  if  that  shall  need,"  the  maiden  said. 
Now  paused  the  Voice  before  it  asked  anew : 
"  But  knowest  thou  that  all  thou  boldest  true 
Thy  soul  may  yet  deny  in  bitter  pain,^ 
So  thou  shalt  deem  thy  sacrifice  in  vain?" 
"E'en  this  I  know,"  she  said,  "and  yet  again 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  enter." 

"Enter  then!" 
That  hollow  Voice  rephed.     She  passed  the  door. 
A  sable  curtain  fell — and  nothing  more. 
"A  fool!"  snarled  some  one,  gnashing.     Like  a  prayer 
"A  saint!"  the  whispered  answer  thrilled  the  air. 


3n  a  3au00ian  prison 

{From  "Memoirs  of  a  Revolutionist") 

By  Peter  Kropotkin 

(See  page  308) 

ONE  day  in  the  summer  of  1875,  in  the  cell  that  was 
next  to  mine  I  distinctly  heard  the  light  steps  of 
heeled  boots,  and  a  few  minutes  later  I  caught  fragments 
of  a  conversation.  A  feminine  voice  spoke  from  the 
cell,  and  a  deep  bass  voice — evidently  that  of  the  sentry 
— gj-unted  something  in  reply.  Then  I  recognized  the 
sound  of  the  colonel's  spurs,  his  rapid  steps,  his  swearing 
at  the  sentry,  and  the  click  of  the  key  in  the  lock.  He 
said  something,  and  a  feminine  voice  loudly  replied: 
"We  did  not  talk.     I  only  asked  him  to  call  the  non- 


Martyrdom  313 

commissioned  officer."  Then  the  door  was  locked,  and 
I  heard  the  colonel  swearing  in  whispers  at  the  sentry. 

So  I  was  alone  no  more.  I  had  a  lady  neighbor,  who 
at  once  broke  down  tha  severe  discipline  which  had 
hitherto  reigned  among  the  soldiers.  From  that  day  the 
walls  of  the  fortress,  which  had  been  mute  dm'ing  the 
last  fifteen  months,  became  animated.  From  all  sides 
I  heard  knocks  with  the  foot  on  the  floor :  one,  two,  three, 
four,  .  .  .  eleven  knocks;  twenty-four  knocks,  fifteen 
knocks;  then  an  interruption,  followed  by  three  knocks, 
and  a  long  succession  of  thirty-three  knocks.  Over  and 
over  again  these  knocks  were  repeated  in  the  same  suc- 
cession, until  the  neighbor  would  guess  at  last  that  they 
were  meant  for  "Kto  vy?"  (Who  are  you?),  the  letter  v 
being  the  third  letter  in  our  alphabet.  Thereupon  con- 
versation was  soon  established,  and  usually  was  conducted 
in  the  abridged  alphabet;  that  is,  the  alphabet  being 
divided  into  six  rows  of  five  letters,  each  letter  marked 
by  its  row  and  its  place  in  the  row. 

I  discovered  with  great  pleasure  that  I  had  at  my 
left  my  friend  Serdukoff,  with  whom  I  could  soon  talk 
about  everything,  especially  when  we  used  our  cipher. 
But  intercourse  with  men  brought  its  sufferings  as  well 
as  its  joys.  Underneath  me  was  lodged  a  peasant,  whom 
Serdukoff  knew.  He  talked  to  him  by  means  of  knocks; 
and  even  against  my  will,  often  unconsciously  during 
my  work,  I  followed  their  conversatiohs.  I  also  spoke  to 
him.  Now,  if  solitary  confinement  without  any  sort  of 
work  is  hard  for  educated  men,  it  is  infinitely  harder  for 
a  peasant  who  is  accustomed  to  physical  work,  and  not 
at  all  wont  to  spend  years  in  reading.  Our  peasant  friend 
felt  quite  miserable,  and  having  been  kept  for  nearly  two 
years  in  another  prison  before  he  was  brought  to  the 


314  The    Cry   for    Justice 

fortress — his  crime  was  that  he  had  Hstened  to  Socialists 
■ — he  was  already  broken  down.  Soon  I  began  to  notice, 
to  my  terror,  that  from  time  to  time  his  mind  wandered. 
Gradually  his  thoughts  grew  more  and  more  confused, 
and  we  two  perceived,  step  by  step,  day  by  day,  evi- 
dences that  his  reason  was  failing,  until  his  talk  became 
at  last  that  of  a  lunatic.  Frightful  noises  and  wild  cries 
came  next  from  the  lower  story;  our  neighbor  was  mad, 
but  was  still  kept  for  several  months  in  the  casemate 
before  he  was  removed  to  an  asylum,  from  which  he 
never  emerged.  To  witness  the  destruction  of  a  man's 
mind,  under  such  conditions,  was  terrible.  I  am  sure 
it  must  have  contributed  to  increase  the  nervous  irritabil- 
ity of  my  good  and  true  friend  Serdukoff.  When,  after 
four  years'  imprisonment,  he  was  acquitted  by  the  court 
and  released,  he  shot  himself. 


By  Thomas  Bailey  Aldeich 
(New  England  poet  and  journalist,  1836-1907) 

FROM  yonder  gilded  minaret 
Beside  the  steel-blue  Neva  set, 
I  faintly  catch,  from  time  to  time, 
The  sweet,  aerial  midnight  chime — 
"God  save  the  Tsar!" 

Above  the  ravehns  and  the  moats 
Of  the  white  citadel  it  floats; 
And  men  in  dungeons  far  beneath 
Listen,  and  pray,  and  gnash  their  teeth — 
"God  save  the  Tsar!" 


Martyrdom  315 

The  soft  reiterations  sweep 
Across  the  horror  of  their  sleep, 
As  if  some  demon  in  his  glee 
Were  mocking  at  their  misery — 
"God  save  the  Tsar!" 

In  his  red  palace  over  there, 
Wakeful,  he  needs  must  hear  the  prayer. 
How  can  it  drown  the  broken  cries 
.  Wrung  from  his  children's  agonies? — 
"God  save  the  Tsar!" 

Father  they  called  him  from  of  old — 
Batuschka!  .  .  .  How  his  heart  is  cold! 
Wait  till  a  milhon  scourged  men 
Rise  in  their  awful  might,  and  then — 
"God  save  the  Tsar!" 


By  Elsa  Barker        i 

I 
(Contemporary  American  poet  and  novelist.  Catherine  Breshkov- 

sky,  called  "Little  Mother"  by  the  Russian  peasants,  was  sentenced 

to  a  long  term  of  exile   in  Siberia  when   seventy-seven    years   of 

age) 

HOW  narrow  seems  the  round  of  ladies'  lives 
And  ladies'  duties  in  their  smiling  world, 
The  day  this  Titan  woman,  gray  with  years. 
Goes  out  across  the  void  to  prove  her  soul! 
Brief  are  the  pains  of  motherhood  that  end 
In  motherhood's  long  joy;  but  she  has  borne 
The  age-long  travail  of  a  cause  that  lies 
Still-born  at  last  on  History's  cold  lap. 


316  The    Cry   for    Justice 

And  yet  she  rests  not;  yet  she  will  not  drink 

The  cup  of  peace  held  to  her  parching  lips 

By  smug  Dishonor's  hand.     Nay,  forth  she  fares, 

Old  and  alone,,  on  exile's  rocky  road — 

That  well-worn  road  with  snows  incarnadined 

By  blood-drops  from  her  feet  long  years  agone. 

Mother  of  power,  my  soul  goes  out  to  you 

As  a  strong  swimmer  goes  to  meet  the  sea 

Upon  whose  vastness  he  is  like  a  leaf. 

What  are  the  ends  and  purposes  of  song. 

Save  as  a  bugle  at  the  lips  of  Life 

To  sound  reveille  to  a  drowsing  world 

When  some  great  deed  is  rising  like  the  sun? 

Where  are  those  others  whom  your  deeds  inspired 

To  deeds  and  words  that  were  themselves  a  deed? 

Those  who  believe  in  death  have  gone  with  death 

To  the  gray  crags  of  immortality; 

Those  who  believed  in  life  have  gone  with  life 

To  the  red  halls  of  spiritual  death. 

And  you?    But  what  is  death  or  life  to  you? 

Only  a  weapon  in  the  hand  of  faith 

To  cleave  a  way  for  beings  yet  imborn 

To  a  far  freedom  you  will  never  share ! 

Freedom  of  body  is  an  empty  shell 

Wherein  men  crawl  whose  souls  are  held  with  gyves; 

For  Freedom  is  a  spirit,  and  she  dwells 

As  often  in  a  jail  as  on  the  hills. 

In  all  the  world  this  day  there  is  no  soul 

Freer  than  you,  Breshkovsky,  as  you  stand 

Facing  the  future  in  your  narrow  cell. 

For  you  are  free  of  self  and  free  of  fear, 


Martyrdom  317 

Those  twin-born  shades  that  lie  in  wait  for  man 
When  he  steps  out  upon  the  wind-blown  road 
That  leads  to  human  greatness  and  to  pain. 
Take  in  your  hand  once  more  the  pilgrim's  staff — 
Your  delicate  hand  misshapen  from  the  nights 
In  Kara's  mines;  bind  on  yom-,  unbent  back 
That  long  has  borne  the  burdens  of  the  race, 
The  exile's  bundle,  and  upon  your  feet 
Strap  the  worn  sandals  of  a  tireless  faith. 

You  are  too  great  for  pity.     After  you 

We  send  not  sobs,  but  songs;   and  all  our  da]^s 

We  shall  walk  bravelier  knowing  where  you  are. 


In  Liberia 

By  Katherine  Breshkovsky 
{Reported  by  Ernest  Poole) 

As  punishment  for  my  attempt  at  escape  I  was  sentenced 
■^*-  to  four  years'  hard  labor  in  Kara  and  to  forty  blows 
of  the  lash.  Into  my  cell  a  physician  came  to  see  if  I  were 
strong  enough  to  live  through  the  agony.  I  saw  at  once 
that,  afraid  to  flog  a  woman  "political"  without  pre- 
cedent, by  this  trick  of  declaring  me  too  sick  to  be  pun- 
ished they  wished  to  establish  the  precedent  of  the  sentence 
in  order  that  others  might  be  flogged  in  the  future.  I 
insisted  that  I  was  strong  enough,  and  that  the  court  had 
no  right  to  record  such  a  sentence  unless  they  flogged  me 
at  once.     The  sentence  was  not  carried  out. 

A  few  weeks  later  eight  of  the  men  politicals  escaped  in 
pairs,  leaving  dummies  in  their  places.     As  the  guards 


318  The    Cry   for    Justice 

never  took  more  than  a  hasty  look  into  that  noisome  cell, 
they  did  not  discover  the  ruse  for  weeks.  Then  mounted 
Cossacks  rode  out.  The  man-hunt  spread.  Some  of  the 
fugitives  struggled  through  jungles,  over  moimtains  and 
through  swamps  a  thousand  miles  to  Vladivostok,  saw 
the  longed-for  American  vessels,  and  there  on  the  docks 
were  re-captured.     All  were  brought  back  to  Kara. 

For  this  we  were  all  punished.  One  morning  the 
Cossack  guards  entered  our  cells,  seized  us,  tore  off  our 
clothes,  and  dressed  us  in  convict  suits  alive  with  vermin. 
That  scene  cannot  be  described.  One  of  us  attempted 
suicide.  Taken  to  an  old  prison  we  were  thrown  into  the 
"black  holes" — foul  httle  stalls  off  a  low  grimy  hall  which 
contained  two  big  stoves  and  two  little  windows.  Each  of 
us  had  a  stall  six  feet  by  five.  On  winter  nights  the  stall 
doors  were  left  open  for  heat,  but  in  summer  each  was 
locked  at  night  in  her  own  black  hole.  For  three  months 
we  did  not  use  our  bunks,  but  fought  with  candles  and 
pails  of  scalding  water,  until  at  last  the  vermin  were  all 
killed.  We  had  been  put  on  the  "black  hole  diet"  of  black 
bread  and  water.  For  three  years  we  never  breathed  the 
outside  air.  We  struggled  constantly  against  the  out- 
rages inflicted  on  us.  After  one  outrage  we  lay  like  a  row 
of  dead  women  for  nine  days  without  touching  food,  until 
certain  promises  were  finally  exacted  from  the  warden. 
This  "hunger  strike"  was  used  repeatedly.  To  thwart  it 
we  were  often  bound  hand  and  foot,  while  Cossacks  tried 
to  force  food  down  our  throats. 

Kara  grew  worse  after  I  left.  To  hint  at  what  hap- 
pened I  tell  briefly  the  story  of  my  dear  friend  Maria,  a 
woman  of  broad  education  and  deep  refinement.  Shortly 
after  my  going,  Maria  saw  Madame  Sigida  strike  an 
official  who  had  repeatedly  insulted  the  women.     Two 


~     S  -B 


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Martyrdom  319 

days  later  she  watched  Sigida  die,  moaning  and  bleeding 
from  the  lash;  that  night  she  saw  three  women  commit 
suicide  as  a  protest  to  the  world;  she  knew  that  twenty 
men  attempted  suicide  on  the  night  following,  and  she 
determined  to  double  the  protest  by  assassinating  the 
Governor  of  Trans-Baikal,  who  had  ordered  Sigida's 
flogging.  At  this  time  Maria  was  pregnant.  Her  prison 
term  over,  she  left  her  husband  and  walked  hundreds  of 
miles  to  the  Governor's  house  and  shot  him.  She  spent 
three  months  in  a  cold,  dirty,  "secret  cell"  not  long  enough 
to  lie  down  in  or  high  enough  to  stand  up  in,  wearing  the 
cast-off  suit  of  a  convict,  sleeping  on  the  bare  floor  and 
tormented  by  vermin.  She  was  then  sentenced  to  be 
hanged.  She  hesitated  now  whether  to  save  the  life  of 
her  unborn  child.  She  knew  that  if  she  revealed  her 
condition  her  sentence  would  be  changed  to  imprison- 
ment. She  decided  to  keep  silence  and  sacrifice  her  child, 
that  when  the  execution  was  over  and  her  condition  was 
discovered,  the  effect  on  Russia  might  be  still  greater. 
Her  condition,  however,  became  apparant,  and  she  was 
started  off  to  the  Irkutsk  prison.  It  was  midwinter, 
forty  degrees  below  zero.  She  walked.  She  was  given 
no  overcoat  and  no  boots,  until  some  common  criminals  in 
the  column  gave  her  theirs.  Her  child  was  bom  dead  in 
prison,  and  soon  after  she  too  died. 


320  The    Cry   for    Justice 

^li&oxi  ^tmm^  of  an  ;anatc|)i0t 

By  Alexander  Berkman 

(The  life-story  of  a  man  who  served  a  fourteen-year  sentence  in  the 

Western  Penitentiary  of  Pennsylvania  for  an  attempt 

at  assassination) 

{Introduction  by  Hutchins  Hapgood) 

NOT  only  has  this  book  the  interest  of  the  human 
document,  but  it  is  also  a  striking  proof  of  the 
power  of  the  human  soul.  Alexander  Berkman  spent 
fourteen  years  in  prison,  under  perhaps  more  than  com- 
monly harsh  and  severe  conditions.  Prison  life  tends  to 
destroy  the  body,  weaken  the  mind  and  pervert  the 
character.  Berkman  consciously  struggled  with  these 
adverse,  destructive  conditions.  He  took  care  of  his 
body.  He  took  care  of  his  mind.  He  did  so  strenuously. 
It  was  a  moral  effort.  He  felt  insane  ideas  trying  to  take 
possession  of  him.  Insanity  is  a  natural  result  of  prison 
life.  It  always  tends  to  come.  This  man  felt  it,  con- 
sciously struggled  against  it,  and  overcame  it.  That  the 
prison  affected  him  is  true.  It  always  does.  But  he 
saved  himself,  essentially.  Society  tried  to  destroy  him, 
but  failed. 

If  people  will  read  this  book  carefully  it  will  tend  to 
do  away  with  prisons.  The  public,  once  vividly  con- 
scious of  what  prison  life  is  and  must  be,  would  not  be 
willing  to  maintain  prisons.  This  is  the  only  book  that 
I  know  which  goes  deeply  into  the  corrupting,  demoraliz- 
ing psychology  of  prison  life.  It  shows,  in  picture  after 
pictiu-e,  sketch  after  sketch,  not  only  the  obvious  brutal- 
ity, stupidity,  ughness  permeating  the  institution,  but, 
very  touching,  it  shows  the  good  qualities  and  instincts 


Martyrdom  321 

of  the  human  heart  perverted,  demoralized,  helplessly 
struggling  for  life;  beautiful  tendencies  basely  expressing 
themselves.  And  the  personality  of  Berkman  goes 
through  it  all;  idealistic,  coiu'ageous,  uncompromising,  sin- 
cere, truthful;  not  untouched,  as  I  have  said,  by  his 
surroundings,  but  remaining  his  essential  self.  .  .  . 

The  Russian  Nihilistic  origin  of  Berkman,  his  Anar- 
chistic experience  in  America,  his  attempt  on  the  life  of 
Frick — an  attempt  made  at  a  violent  industrial  crisis,  an 
attempt  made  as  a  result  of  a  sincere  if  fanatical  belief 
that  he  was  called  on  by  his  destiny  to  strike  a  psycho- 
logical blow  for  the  oppressed  of  the  community — this 
part  of  the  book  will  arouse  extreme  disagreement  and 
disapproval  of  his  ideas  and  his  act.  But  I  see  no  reason 
why  this,  with  the  rest,  should  not  rather  be  regarded  as 
an  integral  part  of  a  hmnan  docxunent,  as  part  of  the 
record  of  a  life,  with  its  social  and  psychological  sugges- 
tions and  explanations.  Why  not  try  to  understand  an 
honest  man  even  if  he  feels  called  on  to  kill?  There,  too, 
it  may  be  deeply  instructive.  There,  too,  it  has  its  lessons. 
Read  it  not  in  a  combative  spirit.  Read  to  understand. 
Do  not  read  to  agree,  of  course,  but  read  to  see. 

The  Dungeon 

In  the  storeroom  I  am  stripped  of  my  suit  of  dark  gray, 
and  clad  in  the  hateful  stripes.  Coatless  and  shoeless, 
I  am  led  through  hallways  and  corridors,  down  a  steep 
flight  of  stairs,  and  thrown  into  the  dungeon. 

Total  darkness.  The  blackness  is  massive,  palpable — 
I  feel  its  hand  upon  my  head,  my  face.  I  dare  not  move, 
lest  a  misstep  thrust  me  into  the  abyss.  I  hold  my  hand 
close  to  my  eyes — I  feel  the  touch  of  my  lashes  upon  it, 

21 


322  The    Cry   for    Justice 

but  I  cannot  see  its  outline.  Motionless  I  stand  on  the 
spot,  devoid  of  all  sense  of  direction.  The  silence  is  sin- 
ister; it  seems  to  me  I  can  hear  it.  Only  now  and  then 
the  hasty  scrambling  of  nimble  feet  suddenly  rends  the 
stillness,  and  the  gnawing  of  invisible  river  rats  haunts  the 
fearful  solitude. 

Slowly  the  blackness  pales.  It  ebbs  and  melts;  out 
of  the  sombre  gray,  a  wall  looms  above ;  the  silhouette  of 
a  door  rises  dimly  before  me,  sloping  upward  and  growing 
compact  and  impenetrable. 

The  hours  drag  in  unbroken  sameness.  Not  a  sound 
reaches  me  from  the  cell-house.  In  the  maddening  quiet 
and  darkness  I  am  bereft  of  all  consciousness  of  time,  save 
once  a  day  when  the  heavy  rattle  of  keys  apprises  me  of 
the  morning:  the  dungeon  is  unlocked,  and  the  silent 
guards  hand  me  a  slice  of  bread  and  a  cup  of  water. 
The  double  doors  fall  heavily  to,  the  steps  grow  fainter 
and  die  in  the  distance,  and  all  is  dark  again  -in  the 
dungeon. 

The  numbness  of  death  steals  upon  my  soul.  The 
floor  is  cold  and  clammy,  the  gnawing  grows  louder  and 
nearer,  and  I  am  filled  with  dread  lest  the  starving  rats 
attack  my  bare  feet.  I  snatch  a  few  unconscious  moments 
leaning  against  the  door;  and  then  again  I  pace  the  cell, 
striving  to  keep  awake,  wondering  whether  it  be  night  or 
day,  yearning  for  the  sound  of  a  human  voice. 

Utterly  forsaken!  Cast  into  the  stony  bowels  of  the 
underground,  the  world  of  man  receding,  leaving  no 
trace  behind.  .  .  .  Eagerly  I  strain  my  ear — only  the 
ceaseless,  fearful  gnawing.  I  clutch  the  bars  in  despera- 
tion— a  hollow  echo  mocks  the  clanking  iron.  My  hands 
tear  violently  at  the  door — "Ho,  there!  Any  one  here?" 
All  is  silent.     Nameless  terrors  quiver  in  my  mind,  weav- 


Martyrdom  323 

ing  nightmares  of  mortal  dread  and  despair.  Fear  shapes 
convulsive  thoughts:  they  rage  in  wild  tempest,  then 
become  calm,  and  again  rush  through  time  and  space  in 
a  rapid  succession  of  strangely  familiar  scenes,  wakened 
in  my  slumbering  consciousness. 

Exhausted  and  weary  I  droop  against  the  wall.  A 
slimy  creeping  on  my  face  startles  me  in  horror,  and 
again  I  pace  the  cell.  I  feel  cold  and  hungry.  Am  I 
forgotten?  Three  days  must  have  passed,  and  more. 
Have  they  forgotten  me?  .    .    . 

The  clank  of  keys  sends  a  thrill  of  joy  to  my  heart. 
My  tomb  will  open — oh,  to  see  the  hght,  and  breathe  the 
air  again.  .  .  . 

"Officer,  isn't  my  time  up  yet?" 

"What's  your  hurry?    You've  only  been  here  one  day." 

The  doors  fall  to.  Ravenously  I  devour  the  bread, 
so  small  and  thin,  just  a  bite.  Only  one  day!  Despair 
enfolds  me  like  a  pall.  Faint  with  anguish,  I  sink  to  the 
floor.  .  .  . 

The  Sick  Ldne 

One  by  one  the  men  augment  the  row;  they  walk 
slowly,  bent  and  coughing,  painfully  limping  down  the 
steep  flights.  From  every  range  they  come;  the  old  and 
decrepit,  the  young  consumptives,  the  lame  and  asth- 
matic, a  tottering  old  negro,  an  idiotic  white  boy.  AU 
look  withered  and  dejected, — a  ghastly  hne,  palsied  and 
blear-eyed,  blanched  in  the  valley  of  death. 

The  rotunda  door  opens  noisily,  and  the  doctor  enters, 
accompanied  by  Deputy  Warden  Graves  and  Assistant 
Deputy  Hopkins.  Behind  them  is  a  prisoner,  dressed  in 
dark  gray  and  carrying  a  medicine  box.  Dr.  Boyce 
glances  at  the  long  line,  and  knits  his  brows.     He  looks 


S21f.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

at  his  watch,  and  the  frown  deepens.  He  has  much  to 
do.  Since  the  death  of  the  senior  doctor,  the  young 
graduate  is  the  sole  physician  of  the  big  prison.  He 
must  make  the  rounds  of  the  shops  before  noon,  and  visit 
the  hospital  before  the  Warden  or  the  Deputy  drops  in. 

Mr.  Greaves  sits  down  at  the  officers'  desk,  near  the 
hall  entrance.  The  Assistant  Deputy,  pad  in  hand,  places 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  sick  line.  The  doctor  leans 
against  the  door  of  the  rotunda,  facing  the  Deputy. 
The  block  officers  stand  within  call,  at  respectful  distances. 

"Two-fifty-five!"  the  Assistant  Deputy  calls  out. 

A  slender  young  man  leaves  the  line  and  approaches 
the  doctor.  He  is  tall  and  well  featured,  the  large  eyes 
lustrous  in  the  pale  face.     He  speaks  in  a  hoarse  voice : 

"Doctor,  there  is  something  the  matter  with  my  side. 
I  have  pains,  and  I  cough  bad  at  night,  and  in  the 
morning " 

"All  right,"  the  doctor  interrupts,  without ' looking  up 
from  his  note  book.  "Give  him  some  salts,"  he  adds, 
with  a  nod  to  his  assistant. 

"Next!"  the  Deputy  calls. 

"Will  you  please  excuse  me  from  the  shop  for  a  few 
days?"  the  sick  prisoner  pleads,  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 

The  physician  glances  questioningly  at  the  Deputy. 
The  latter  cries,  impatiently,  "Next,  next  man!"  striking 
the  desk  twice,  in  quick  succession,  with  the  knuckles 
of  his  hand. 

"Return  to  the  shop,"  the  doctor  says  to  the  prisoner. 

"Next,"  the  Deputy  calls,  spurting  a  stream  of  tobacco 
juice  in  the  direction  of  the  cuspidor.  It  strikes  sidewise, 
and  splashes  over  the  foot  of  the  approaching  new  patient, 
a  young  negro,  his  neck  covered  with  bulging  tumors. 

"Number?"  the  doctor  inquires. 


Martyrdom  325 

"One-thirty-seven,  A  one-thirty-seven!"  the  Deputy 
mumbles,  his  head  thrown  back  to  receive  a  fresh  handful 
of  "scrap"  tobacco. 

"Guess  Ah's  got  de  big  neck,  Ah  is,  Mistah  Boyce," 
the  negro  says  hoarsely. 

"Salts.     Return  to  work.     Next!" 

"A  one-twenty-six!" 

A  young  man  with  parchment-like  face,  sere  and  yellow, 
walks  painfully  from  the  line. 

"Doctor,  I  seem  to  be  gettin'  worser,  and  I'm  afraid 


"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Pains  in  the  stomach.     Gettin'  so  turrible,  I " 

"Give  him  a  plaster.     Next!" 

"Plaster  hell!"  the  prisoner  breaks  out  in  a  fury,  his 
face  growing  livid.  "Look  at  this,  will  you?"  With 
a  quick  motion  he  pulls  his  shirt  up  to  his  head.  His 
chest  and  back  are  entirely  covered  with  porous  plasters; 
not  an  inch  of  skin  is  visible.  "Damn  your  plasters,"  he 
cries  with  sudden  sobs,  "I  ain't  got  no  more  room  for 
plasters.  I'm  putty  near  dyin',  an'  you  won't  do  nothin' 
fer  me." 

The  guards  pounce  upon  the  man,  and  drag  him  into 
the  rotunda. 

The  Keepers 

The  comparative  freedom  of  the  range  familiarizes  me 
with  the  workings  of  the  institution,  and  brings  me  in 
close  contact  with  the  authorities.  The  personnel  of  the 
guards  is  of  very  inferior  character.  I  find  their  average 
intelligence  considerably  lower  than  that  of  the  inmates. 
Especially  does  the  element  recruited  from  the  police 
and  the  detective  service  lack  sympathy  with  the  unfor- 


326  The    Cry   for    Justice 

tunates  in  their  charge.  They  are  mostly  men  discharged 
from  city  employment  because  of  habitual  drunkenness, 
or  flagrant  brutality  and  corruption.  Their  attitude 
toward  the  prisoners  is  summed  up  in  coercion  and  sup- 
pression. They  look  upon  the  men  as  will-less  objects  of 
iron-handed  discipline,  exact  unquestioning  obedience  and 
absolute  submissiveness  to  peremptory  whims,  and  harbor 
personal  animosity  toward  the  less  pliant.  The  more 
intelUgent  among  the  officers  scorn  inferior  duties,  and 
crave  advancement.  The  authority  and  remuneration  of 
a  Deputy  Wardenship  is  alluring  to  them,  and  every 
keeper  considers  himself  the  fittest  for  the  vacancy.  But 
the  coveted  prize  is  awarded  to  the  guard  most  feared 
by  the  inmates,  and  most  subservient  to  the  Warden, — 
a  direct  incitement  to  brutality  on  the  one  hand,  to 
sycophancy  on  the  other.  .  .  . 

Daily  I  behold  the  machinery  at  work,  grinding  and 
pulverizing,  brutalizing  the  officers,  dehumanizing  the 
inmates.  Far  removed  from  the  strife  and  struggle  of 
the  larger  world,  I  yet  witness  its  miniature  replica,  more 
agonizing  and  merciless  within  the  walls.  A  perfected 
model  it  is,  this  prison  life,  with  its  apparent  uniformity 
and  dull  passivity.  But  beneath  the  torpid  surface 
smolder  the  fires  of  being,  now  crackling  faintly  under  a 
dun  smothering  smoke,  now  blazing  forth  with  the  ruth- 
lessness  of  despair.  Hidden  by  the  veil  of  discipline  rages 
the  struggle  of  fiercely  contending  wills,  and  intricate 
meshes  are  woven  in  the  quagmire  of  darkness  and 
suppression. 

Intrigue  and  counter-plot,  violence  and  corruption,  are 
rampant  in  cell-house  and  shop.  The  prisoners  spy  upon 
each  other,  and  in  turn  upon  the  officers.  The  latter 
encourage  the  trusties  in  unearthing  the  secret  doings  of 


Martyrdom  327 

the  inmates,  and  the  stools  enviously  compete  with  each 
other  in  supplying  information  to  the  keepers.  Often 
they  deliberately  inveigle  the  trustful  prisoner  into  a 
fake  plot  to  escape,  help  and  encourage  him  in  the  prepa- 
rations, and  at  the  critical  moment  denounce  him  to  the 
authorities.  The  luckless  man  is  severely  punished, 
usually  remaining  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  intrigue. 
The  provocateur  is  rewarded  with  greater  liberty  and 
special  privileges.  Frequently  his  treachery  proves  the 
stepping-stone  to  freedom,  aided  by  the  Warden's  official 
recommendation  of  the  "model  prisoner"  to  the  State 
Board  of  Pardons. 


By  Frederic  Harrison 

(EnglLsh  philosopher,  born  1831) 

O OCTET Y  can  overlook  murder,  adultery  or  swindling; 
^^  it  never  forgives  the  preaching  of  a  new  gospel. 


By  Leonid  Andreyev 

(One  of  the  most  famous  of  the  Russian  writer's  stories,  in  which 
he  describes  the  execution  of  a  group  of  Terrorists,  analyzing  their 
sensations  in  theii-  separate  cells,  and  on  their  journey  together  to 
the  foot  of  the  gallows) 

THE  Unknown,  surnamed  Werner,  was  a  man  fatigued 
by  struggle.  He  had  loved  life,  the  theatre,  society, ' 
art,  hterature,  passionately  Endowed  with  an  excellent 
memory,  he  spoke  several  languages  perfectly.  He  was 
fond  of  dress,  and  had  excellent  manners.     Of  the  whole 


The    Cry   for    Justice 


group  of  terrorists  he  was  the  only  one  who  was  able  to 
appear  in  society  without  risk  of  recognition. 

For  a  long  time  already,  and  without  his  comrades 
having  noticed  it,  he  had  entertained  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  men.  More  of  a  mathematician  than  a  poet, 
ecstasy  and  inspiration  had  remained  so  far  things  un- 
known to  him;  at  times  he  would  look  upon  himself  as  a 
madman  seeking  to  square  the  circle  in  seas  of  human 
blood.  The  enemy  against  which  he  daily  struggled 
could  not  inspire  him  with  respect;  it  was  nothing  but  a 
compact  network  of  stupidities,  treasons,  falsehoods,  base 
deceits.  .  .  . 

Werner  understood  that  the  execution  was  not  simply 
death,  but  also  something  more.  In  any  case,  he  was 
determined  to  meet  it  calmly,  to  live  until  the  end  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  or  would  happen.  Only  in  this 
way  could  he  repress  the  profoundest  contempt  for  the 
execution  and  preserve  his  liberty  of  mind.  His  com- 
rades, although  knowing  well  his  cold  and  haughty  intre- 
pidity, would  perhaps  not  have  believed  it  themselves; 
but  in  the  courtroom  he  thought  not  of  life  or  of  death: 
he  played  in  his  mind  a  difficult  game  of  chess,  giving  it 
his  deepest  and  quietest  attention.  An  excellent  player, 
he  had  begun  this  game  on  the  very  day  of  his  imprison- 
ment, and  he  had  kept  it  up  continually.  And  the  verdict 
that  condemned  him  did  not  displace  a  single  piece  on  the 
invisible  board. 

Now  he  was  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  feeling  his 
pulse.  His  heart  beat  fast,  but  tranquilly  and  regularly, 
with  a  sonorous  force.  Like  a  novice  thrown  into  prison 
for  the  first  time,  he  examined  attentively  the  cell,  the 
bolts,  the  chair  screwed  to  the  wall,  and  said  to  himself: 

"Why  have  I  such  a  sensation  of  joy,  of  liberty?     Yes, 


Martyrdom  329 

of  liberty;  I  think  of  to-morrow's  execution,  and  it  seems 
to  me  it  does  not  exist.  I  look  at  the  walls,  and  they  seem 
to  me  not  to  exist  either.  And  I  feel  as  free  as  if,  instead 
of  being  in  prison,  I  had  just  come  out  of  another  cell  in 
which  I  had  been  confined  all  my  life." 

Werner's  hands  began  to  tremble,  a  thing  unknown  to 
him.  His  thought  became  more  and  more  vibrant.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  tongues  of  fire  were  moving  in  his 
head,  trying  to  escape  from  his  brain  to  lighten  the  still 
obsciKe  distance.  Finally  the  flame  darted  forth,  and  the 
horizon  was  brilliantly  illuminated. 

The  vague  lassitude  that  had  tortured  Werner  dm-ing 
the  last  two  years  had  disappeared  at  sight  of  death;  his 
beautiful  youth  came  back.  It  was  even  something  more 
than  beautiful  youth.  With  the  astonishing  clearness  of 
mind  that  sometimes  lifts  man  to  the  supreme  heights  of 
meditation,  Werner  saw  suddenly  both  life  and  death;  and 
the  majesty  of  this  new  spectacle  struck  him.  He  seemed 
to  be  following  a  path  as  narrow  as  the  edge  of  a  blade, 
on  the  crest  of  the  loftiest  mountain.  On  one  side  he  saw 
hfe,  and  on  the  other  he  saw  death;  and  they  were  like 
two  seas,  sparkling  and  beautiful,  melting  into  each  other 
at  the  horizon  in  a  single  infinite  extension 

"What  is  this,  then?  What  a  divine  spectacle!"  said 
he  slowly. 

He  arose  involuntarily  and  straightened  up,  as  if  in 
presence  of  the  Supreme  Being.  And,  annihilating  the 
walls,  annihilating  space  and  time,  by  the  force  of  his  all- 
penetrating  look,  he  cast  his  eyes  into  the  depths  of  the 
life  that  he  had  quitted. 

And  life  took  on  a  new  aspect.  He  no  longer  tried,  as  of 
old,  to  translate  into  words  that  he  was;  moreover,  in  the 
whole  range  of  hmnan  language,  still  so  poor  and  miserly, 


330  The    Cry  for    Justice 

he  found  no  words  adequate.  The  paltry,  dirty  and  evil 
things  that  suggested  to  him  contempt  and  sometimes  even 
disgust  at  the  sight  of  men  had  completely  disappeared, 
just  as,  to  people  rising  in  a  balloon,  the  mud  and  filth  of  the 
narrow  streets  become  invisible,  and  ugliness  changes  into 
beauty. 

With  an  imconscious  movement  Werner  walked  toward 
the  table  and  leaned  upon  it  with  his  right  arm.  Haughty 
and  authoritative  by  nature,  he  had  never  been  seen  in  a 
prouder,  freer,  and  more  imperious  attitude;  never  had 
his  face  worn  such  a  look,  never  had  he  so  lifted  up  his 
head,  for  at  no  previous  time  had  he  been  as  free  and 
powerful  as  now,  in  this  prison,  on  the  eve  of  execution, 
at  the  threshold  of  death. 

In  his  illuminated  eyes  men  wore  a  new  aspect,  an 
unknown  beauty  and  charm.  He  hovered  above  time, 
and  never  had  this  humanity,  which  only  the  night  before 
was  howling  like  a  wild  beast  in  the  forest,  appeared  to 
him  so  yoimg.  What  had  heretofore  seemed  to  him  terri- 
ble, unpardonable  and  base,  became  suddenly  touching  and 
naive,  just  as  we  cherish  in  the  child  the  awkwardness  of 
its  behavior,  the  incoherent  stammerings  in  which  its 
unconscious  genius  glimmers,  its  laughable  errors  and 
blunders,  its  cruel  bruises. 

"My  dear  friends!"  .  .  . 

What  mysterious  path  had  he  followed  to  pass  from  a 
feeliag  of  unlimited  and  haughty  liberty  to  this  passionate 
and  moving  pity?  He  did  not  know.  Did  he  really  pity 
his  comrades,  or  did  his  tears  hide  something  more  pas- 
sionate, something  really  greater?  His  heart,  which  had 
suddenly  revived  and  reblossomed,  could  not  tell  him. 
Werner  wept,  and  whispered: 

"My  dear  comrades!     My  dear  comrades!" 


Martyrdom  831 

And  in  this  man  who  wept,  and  who  smiled  through  his 
tears,  no  one — ^not  the  judges,  or  his  comrades,  or  himself 
— would  have  recognized  the  cold  and  haughty  Werner, 
sceptical  and  insolent. 


a  dMoman's  dutntion 

By  Edward  King 

(After  the  Paris  Commune  of  1871,  the  leaders  of  the  people  were 

led  out  and  slaughtered  by  thousands.     The  author  of  this 

poem  was  an  American  journalist,  1848-1896) 

SWEET-BREATHED  and  young, 
The  people's  daughter, 
No  nerves  unstrung, 
Going  to  slaughter! 

"Good  morning,  friends. 

You'll  love  us  better, — 
Make  us  amends : 

We've  burst  your  fetter! 

"How  the  sun  gleams! 

(Women  are  snarling) : 
Give  me  your  beams. 

Liberty's  darhng! 

"  Marie's  my  name ; 

Christ's  mother  bore  it. 
The  badge?     No  shame: 

Glad  that  I  wore  it!" 


332  The    Cry   for    Justice 

(Hair  to  the  waist, 

Limbs  like  a  Venus) : 
Robes  are  displaced: 

"Soldiers,  please  screen  us! 

"He  at  the  front? 

That  is  my  lover : 
Stood  all  the  brunt; — 

Now — the  fight's  over. 

"Powder  and  bread 

Gave  out  together: 
Droll  to  be  dead 

In  this  bright  weather! 

"Jean,  boy,  we  might 

Have  married  in  June ! 
This  is  the  wall?     Right! 

Vive  la  Commune!" 


By  Thomas  Jefferson 
(See  page  228) 

THE  tree  of  liberty  must  be  refreshed  from  time  to 
time  with  the  blood  of  patriots  and  tyrants.     It  is 
its  natural  manure. 


Martyrdom  333 

%^t^t  &|)ift(ns  fecei«0 

By  Charles  Edward  Russell 

(American  editor  and  Socialist  lecturer,  bom  1860.     In  the  fol- 
lowing paragraphs   he  has  given  a,  newspaper   reporter's 
reminiscences  of  the  Chicago  Anarchists) 

A  FTER  so  many  years  the  passions  and  prejudices  of 
-'*■  the  half-forgotten  struggle  ought  to  have  died  away, 
and  men  may  now  speak  candidly  and  without  restraint 
of  these  things  as  they  really  were.  Let  me  then  record 
my  deliberate  conviction  that  Albert  Parsons  never  enter- 
tained the  thought  of  harm  against  any  human  being, 
for  I  have  seldom  met  a  man  of  a  more  genuine  kindness 
of  heart;  and  if  the  men  he  denounced  in  his  speeches 
had  been  in  actual  danger  before  him  I  am  certain  he 
would  have  been  the  first  to  rush  to  their  defense  from 
physical  harm.  And  while  I  am  on  this  subject,  I  may 
add  an  expression  of  a  wonder  growing  upon  me  for 
many  years,  that  no  one  has  ever  paid  an  adequate  tribute 
to  this  man.  I  have  not  the  slightest  sympathy  with 
his  doctrines,  if  he  believed  in  the  violence  he  seemed 
sometimes  to  preach,  which  I  could  never  tell.  I  have 
lived  in  the  world  long  enough  to  know  that  the  social 
wrongs  that  moved  him  to  protest  can  never  be  cured  by 
violence.  Say,  then,  that  the  man  erred  grievously;  if 
his  error  had  been  ten  times  as  great  it  ought  to  have 
been  wiped  from  hmnan  recollection  by  his  sacrifice,  and 
there  should  remain  but  the  one  image  of  him,  leaving 
his  place  of  safety  and  voluntarily  entering  the  prisoner's 
dock.  I  doubt  if  that  magnanimous  act  has  its  parallel 
in  history.  A  hundred  men  have  been  elevated  to  be 
national  heroes  for  deeds  far  less  heroic.     The  fact  that 


334-  The    Cry   for    Justice 

after  all  these  years  it  is  still  obscured  and  men  hesitate 
to  speak  about  it  is  marvelous  testimony  to  the  power 
of  the  press  to  produce  enduring  impressions.  Even  the 
other  staggering  fact  that  in  the  history  of  American 
courts  this  is  the  only  man  that  ever  came  voluntarily 
and  gave  himself  up  and  then  was  hanged,  even  that 
seems  to  be  eliminated  from  the  little  consideration  that 
is  ever  bestowed  upon  a  figure  of  courage  so  extraordinary. 
Similarly  I  wondered  while  all  these  events  were  pass- 
ing before  me  and  wonder  now,  that  no  one  ever  stopped 
to  inquire  why  such  men  as  Parsons  and  Fielden  were  in 
revolt.  Granted  freely  that  their  idea  of  the  best  manner 
of  making  a  protest  was  utterly  wrong  and  impossible; 
granted  that  they  went  not  the  best  way  to  work.  But 
what  was  it  that  drove  them  into  attack  against  the 
social  order  as  they  found  it?  They  and  thousands  of 
other  men  that  stood  with  them  were  not  bad  men,  nor 
depraved,  nor  bloodthirsty,  nor  hard-hearted,  nor  crim- 
inal, nor  selfish,  nor  crazy.  Then  what  was  it  that 
evoked  a  complaint  so  bitter  and  deep-seated?  In  all 
the  clamor  that  filled  the  press  for  the  execution  of  the 
law  and  the  supremacy  of  order  not  one  writer  ever  stopped 
to  ask  this  obvious  question.  No  one  ever  contemplated 
the  simple  fact  that  men  do  not  band  themselves  together 
to  make  a  protest  without  the  belief  that  they  have  some- 
thing to  protest  about,  and  that  in  any  organized  state 
of  society  a  widespread  protest  is  something  for  grave 
inquiry.  I  thought  then  and  I  thinlc  now  that  a  few 
words  devoted  to  this  suggestion  would  have  been  of  far 
greater  service  to  society  than  the  insensate  demand  for 
blood  and  more  blood  with  which  the  journals  of  Chicago 
were  mostly  filled. 


Martyrdom  335 

CSe  (Eagl^  tfiat  10  Jforgotten 

By  Vachel  Lindsay  \_^_^ 

(Poet  and  minstrel  of  Springfield,  Illinois,  born  1879;  has  tramped 
over  many  parts  of  the  United  States  with  his  leaflet  of  "Rhymes 
to  be  Traded  for  Bread."  He  has  rediscovered  the  Homeric  chant, 
and  poured  into  it  the  life  of  the  Middle  West.  The  following 
poem  is  addressed  to  John  P.  Altgeld,  once  Governor  of  Illinois, 
who,  having  convinced  himseK  that  the  so-called  Chicago  Anarchists 
were  innocent  of  the  crime  charged  against  them,  pardoned  them, 
and  thereby  sacrificed  his  political  career) 

CLEEP    softly  .  .  .  eagle    forgotten  .  .  .  under    the 

^^     stone. 

Time  has  its  way  with  you  there,  and  the  clay  has  its 

own. 
"We  have  buried  him  now,"  thought  your  foes,  and  in 

secret  rejoiced. 
They  made  a  brave  show  of  their  mourning,  their  hatred 

unvoiced. 
They  had  snarled  at  you,  barked  at  you,  foamed  at  you, 

day  after  day, 
Now  you  were  ended.     They  praised  you  .  .      and  laid 

you  away. 
The  others,  that  mourned  you  in  silence  and  terror  and 

truth. 
The  widow  bereft  of  her  crust,  and  the  boy  without  youth, 
The  mocked  and  the  scorned  and  the  wounded,  the  lame 

and  the  poor. 
That  should  have  remembered  forever  .  .  .  remember  no 

more. 
Where  are  those  lovers  of  yours,  on  what  name  do  they 

call. 
The  lost,  that  in  armies  wept  over  your  funeral  pall? 


336  The    Cry   for    Justice 

They  call  on  the  names  of  a  hundred  high-valiant  ones, 
A  hundred  white  eagles  have  risen,  the  sons  of  your  sons. 
The  zeal  in  their  wings  is  a  zeal  that  your  dreaming  began, 
The  valor  that  wore  out  your  soul  in  the  service  of  man. 
Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone. 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there,  and  the  clay  has  its  own. 
Sleep  on,  0  brave-hearted,  0  wise  man  that  kindled  the 

flame — 
To  live  in  mankind  is  far  more  than  to  live  in  a  name, 
To  live  in  mankind,  far,  far  more  .  .  .  than  to  live  in  a 

name. 


Kmmottalitp 

(From  the  Will  of  Francisco  Ferrer)  ,^_' 

(Spanish  educator  and  radical,  1859-1909,  executed  after  the 
Barcelona  riots  by  a  plot  of  his  clerical  enemies) 

I  ALSO  wish  my  friends  to  speak  little  or  not  at  all 
about  me,  because  idols  are  created  when  men  are 
praised,  and  this  is  very  bad  for  the  future  of  the  human 
race.  Acts  alone,  no  matter  by  whom  committed,  ought 
to,  be  studied,  praised,  or  blamed.  Let  them  be  praised 
in  order  that  they  may  be  imitated  when  they  seem  to 
contribute  to  the  common  weal;  let  them  be  censured 
when  they  are  regarded  as  injurious  to  the  general  well- 
being,  so  that  they  may  not  to  be  repeated. 

I  desire  that  on  no  occasion,  whether  near  or  remote, 
nor  for  any  reason  whatsoever,  shall  demonstrations  of 
a  political  or  rehgious  character  be  made  before  my 
remains,  as  I  consider  the  time  devoted  to  the  dead  would 
be  better  employed  in  improving  the  condition  of  the 
living,  most  of  whom  stand  in  great  need  of  this. 


Martyrdom  S37 

Ets^t  Upon  Mal&geim 

By  Voltaieine  de  Cletke 

(American  anarchist  writer,  1866-1912.  Waldheim  is  a  cemetery 
in  Chicago,  where  the  executed  Anarchists  were  buried.  Upon 
the  monument  is  the  figure  of  a  woman  holding  a  dying  man  upon 
her  knees,  with  one  hand  pressing  a  crown  upon  his  forehead,  and 
with  the  other  drawing  a  dagger) 

T IGHT  upon  Waldheim!    And  the  earth  is  gray; 
■'— '    A  bitter  wind  is  driving  from  the  north; 
The  stone  is  cold,  and  strange  cold  whispers  say: 

"  What  do  ye  here  with  Death?     Go  forth !    Go  forth !" 

Is  this  thy  word,  O  Mother,  with  stem  eyes. 
Crowning  thy  dead  with  stone-caressing  touch? 

May  we  not  weep  o'er  him  that  martyred  lies, 
Slain  in  our  name,  for  that  he  loved  us  much? 

May  we  not  linger  till  the  day  is  broad? 

Nay,  none  are  stirring  in  this  stinging  dawn — 
None  but  poor  wretches  that  make  no  moan  to  God: 

What  use  are  these,  0  thou  with  dagger  drawn? 

"Go  forth,  go  forth!    Stand  not  to  weep  for  these, 
Till,  weakened  with  your  weeping,  like  the  snow 

Ye  melt,  dissolving  in  a  coward  peace!" 
Light  upon  Waldheim!    Brother,  let  us  go! 


22 


338  The    Cry   for    Justice 

SL&&a0Mn(ition 

By  Auguste  Vaillant 

(Prom  the  speech  before  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  1894, 
prior  to  receiving  sentence  of  death  for  a  political  crime) 

AH,  gentlemen,  if  the  governing  classes  could  go  down 
'^  among  the  unfortmiates!  But  no,  they  prefer  to 
remain  deaf  to  their  appeals.  It  seems  that  a  fatality 
impels  them,  hke  the  royalty  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
toward  the  precipice  which  will  engulf  them;  for  woe  be 
to  those  who  remain  deaf  to  the  cries  of  the  starving, 
woe  to  those  who,  beheving  themselves  of  superior  essence, 
assume  the  right  to  exploit  those  beneath  them!  There 
comes  a  time  when  the  people  no  longer  reason;  they 
rise  like  a  hurricane,  and  rush  onward  like  a  torrent. 
Then  we  see  bleeding  heads  impaled  on  pikes. 

Among  the  exploited,  gentlemen,  there  are  two  classes 
of  individuals.  Those  of  one  class,  not  realizing  what 
they  are  and  what  they  might  be,  take  life  as  it  comes, 
believe  that  they  are  born  to  be  slaves,  and  content 
themselves  with  the  little  that  is  given  them  in  exchange 
for  their  labor.  But  there  are  others,  on  the  contrary, 
who  think,  who  study  and,  looking  about  them,  discover 
social  iniquities.  Is  it  their  fault  if  they  see  clearly  and 
suffer  at  seeing  others  suffer?  Then  they  throw  them- 
selves into  the  struggle,  and  make  themselves  the  bearers 
of  the  popular  claims. 

I  know  very  well  that  I  shall  be  told  that  I  ought  to 
have  confined  myself  to  speech  for  the  vindication  of  the 
people's  claims.  But  what  can  you  expect!  It  takes  a 
loud  voice  to  make  the  deaf  hear.  Too  long  have  they 
answered    our  voices  by  imprisonment,   the   rope,   and 


Martyrdom  339 

rifle-volleys.  Make  no  mistake;  the  explosion  of  my 
bomb  is  not  only  the  cry  of  the  rebel  Vaillant,  but  the 
cry  of  an  entire  class  which  vindicates  its  rights,  and 
which  will  soon  add  acts  to  words.  For,  be  sure  of  it, 
in  vain  will  they  pass  laws.  The  ideas  of  the  thinkers 
will  not  halt! 


By  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson 

(A  drama  of  modern  industry.  See  page  221.  The  masters  meet 
in  a  great  castle,  the  home  of  one  of  them,  to  plan  the  destruction 
of  the  labor  unions;  whereupon  a  group  of  conspirators  blow  up  the 
castle  with  dynamite.  In  the  scene  following  the  author  gives  his 
reflections  upon  this  event,  in  the  words  of  the  grief-stricken  sister 
of  the  chief  conspirator) 

T TALDEN: — Suppose     what     has     happened     should 

■'■    ■*•  arouse  the  conscience  of  the  people? 

Rachel: — Why,  that's  what  he  was  saying — his  very 
words,  I  think — ^Arouse  the  conscience  of  the  people! 
After  all  these  thousands  of  years  that  we  have  been 
subject  to  the  influence  of  the  family  and  of  religion, 
can  it  be  possible  that  we  are  unable  to  arouse  the  people's 
conscience  except  by — 0  ye  silent  and  exalted  witnesses, 
who  hear  without  answering  and  see  without  reflecting 
what  you  see,  why  don't  you  show  me  how  to  reach  the 
upward  road?  For  in  the  midst  of  all  this  misery  there 
is  no  road  that  leads  upward — ^nothing  but  an  endless 
circling  around  the  same  spot,  by  which  I  perish! 

Halden:^ — Upward  means  forward. 

Rachel:— But  there  is  no  forward  in  this!  We  have 
been  thrown  back  into  sheer  barbarism!  Once  more  all 
faith  in  a  happy  future  has  been  wiped  out.     Just  ask 


SJfi  The    Cry   for    Justice 

a  few  questions  around  here!  .  .  .  And  then  the  sun, 
the  spring — ever  since  that  dreadful  night — nothing  but 
fine  weather,  night  and  day — a  stretch  of  it  the  hke  of 
which  I  cannot  recall.  Is  it  not  as  if  nature  itself  were 
crying  out  to  us:  "Shame!  shame!  You  sprinkle  my 
leaves  with  blood,  and  mingle  death-cries  with  my  song. 
You  darken  the  air  for  me  with  yoxir  gruesome  com- 
plaints." That's  what  it  is  saying  to  us.  "You  are 
soiling  the  spring  for  me.  Your  diseases  and  your  evil 
thoughts  are  crouching  in  the  woods  and  on  the  green- 
swards. Everjrwhere  a  stink  of  misery  is  following  you 
hke  that  of  rotting  waters."  That's  what  it  is  telling  us. 
"Your  greed  and  your  envy  are  a  pair  of  sisters  who 
have  fought  each  other  since  they  were  born" — ^that's 
what  it  says.  "Only  my  highest  mountain  peaks,  only 
my  sandy  wastes  and  icy  deserts,  have  not  seen  those 
sisters;  every  other  part  of  the  earth  has  been  filled  by 
them  with  blood  and  brutal  bawhng.  In  the  midst  of 
eternal  glory  mankind  has  invented  Hell  and  manages  to 
keep  it  filled.  And  men,  who  should  stand  for  perfec- 
tion, harbor  among  them  what  is  worthless  and  foul." 


CliUlon 

By  Lord  Byron 

(Bonnivard,  a  patriot  of  Switzerland,  was  imprisoned  with  his 

sons  in  Chillon  Castle.     The  story  is  told  in  Byron's 

longer  poem,  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon") 

ETERNAL  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 
Brightest  in  dxmgeons.  Liberty,  thou  art — 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 


M  artyrdom  341 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom — 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar;  for  'twas  trod 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard!     May  none  those  marks  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  Godt 


BOOK  VII 

Jesus 


"The  martyred  Christ  of  the  working  class,  the  mspired  evangel 
of  the  downtrodden  masses,  the  world's  supreme  revolutionary 
leader,  whose  love  for  the  poor  and  the  children  of  the  poor 
hallowed  all  the  days  of  his  consecrated  life,  lighted  up  and 
made  forever  holy  the  dark  tragedy  of  his  death,  and  gave  to  the 
ages  his  divine  inspiration  and  his  deathless  name." — Debs. 


By  Eugene  V.  Debs 
(See  page  144) 

THE  martjTed  Christ  of  the  working  class,  the  inspired 
evangel  of  the  downtrodden  masses,  the  world's 
supreme  revolutionary  leader,  whose  love  for  the  poor 
and  the  children  of  the  poor  hallowed  all  the  days  of  his 
consecrated  life,  lighted  up  and  made  forever  holy  the 
dark  tragedy  of  his  death,  and  gave  to  the  ages  his  divine 
inspiration  and  his  deathless  name. 


By  Elizabeth  Waddell 
(Contemporary  American  writer) 

THEY  have  taken  the  tomb  of  our  Comrade  Christ- 
Infidel  hordes  that  believe  not  in  Man; 
Stable  and  stall  for  his  birth  sufficed. 

But  his  tomb  is  built  on  a  kingly  plan. 
They  have  hedged  him  round  with  pomp  and  parade. 
They  have  buried  him  deep  under  steel  and  stone- 
But  we  come  leading  the  great  Crusade 
To  give  our  Comrade  back  to  his  own. 


(345) 


346  The    Cry   for    Justice 

3£0u0  tSe  Kcbolutfonist 

{From  "Christianity  and  the  Social  Crisis"*) 

By  Walter  Rauschenbusch 

(Theologian,  born  1861;  professor  in  Rochester  Theological 
Seminary) 

''  I  "HERE  was  a  revolutionary  consciousness  in  Jesus; 
■'■  not,  of  course,  in  the  common  use  of  the  word 
"revolutionary,"  which  connects  it  with  violence  and 
bloodshed.  But  Jesus  knew  that  he  had  come  to  kindle 
a  fire  on  earth.  Much  as  he  loved  peace,  he  knew  that 
the  actual  result  of  his  work  would  be  not  peace  but  the 
sword.  His  mother  in  her  song  had  recognized  in  her  own 
experience  the  settled  custom  of  God  to  "put  down  the 
proud  and  exalt  them  of  low  degree,"  to  "fill  the  hungry 
with  good  things  and  to  send  the  rich  empty  away." 
King  Robert  of  Sicily  recognized  the  revolutionary  ring 
in  those  phrases,  and  thought  it  well  that  the  Magnificat 
was  sung  only  in  Latin.  The  son  of  Mary  expected  a 
great  reversal  of  values.  The  first  would  be  last  and  the 
last  would  be  first.  He  saw  that  what  was  exalted  among 
man  was  an  abomination  before  God,  and  therefore  these 
exalted  things  had  no  glamour  for  his  eye.  This  revolu- 
tionary note  runs  even  through  the  beatitudes,  where  we 
should  least  expect  it.  The  point  of  them  is  that  hence- 
forth those  were  to  be  blessed  whom  the  world  had  not 
blessed,  for  the  kingdom  of  God  would  reverse  their 
relative  standing.  Now  the  poor  and  the  hungry  and 
sad  were  to  be  satisfied  and  comforted;  the  meek  who 
had  been  shouldered  aside  by  the  ruthless  would  get 


*  By  permission  of  the  MacmiHan  Co. 


Jesus  34.7 

their  chance  to  inherit  the  earth,  and  conflict  and  persecu- 
tion would  be  inevitable  in  the  process. 

We  are  apt  to  forget  that  his  attack  on  the  religious 
leaders  and  authorities  of  his  day  was  of  revolutionary- 
boldness  and  thoroughness.  He  called  the  ecclesiastical 
leaders  hypocrites,  blind  leaders  who  fiunbled  in  their 
casuistry,  and  everywhere  missed  the  decisive  facts  in 
teaching  right  and  wrong.  Their  piety  was  no  piety; 
their  law  was  inadequate;  they  harmed  the  men  whom 
they  wanted  to  convert.  Even  the  publicans  and  harlots 
had  a  truer  piety  than  theirs.  If  we  remember  that 
religion  was  still  the  foundation  of  the  Jewish  State,  and 
that  the  religious  authorities  were  the  pillars  of  existing 
society,  much  as  in  mediaeval  Catholic  Europe,  we  shall 
realize  how  revolutionary  were  his  invectives.  It  was 
like  Luther  anathematizing  the  Catholic  hierarchy. 

His  mind  was  similarly  liberated  from  spiritual  sub- 
jection to  the  existing  civil  powers.  He  called  Herod, 
his  own  liege  sovereign,  "that  fox."  When  the  mother 
of  James  and  John  tried  to  steal  a  march  on  the  others 
and  secure  for  her  sons  a  pledge  of  the  highest  places  in 
the  Messianic  kingdom,  Jesus  felt  that  this  was  a  back- 
sliding into  the  scrambling  methods  of  the  present  social 
order,  in  which  each  tries  to  make  the  others  serve  him, 
and  he  is  greatest  who  can  compel  service  from  most. 
In  the  new  social  order,  which  was  expressed  in  his  own 
life,  each  must  seek  to  give  the  maximima  of  service,  and 
he  would  be  greatest  who  would  serve  utterly.  In  that 
connection  he  sketched  with  a  few  strokes  the  pseudo- 
greatness  of  the  present  aristocracy:  "Ye  know  that 
they  which  are  supposed  to  rule  over  the  nations  lord 
it  over  them,  and  their  great  ones  tyrannize  over  them. 
Thus  shall  it  not  be  among  you."     The  monarchies  and 


S48  The    Cry   for    Justice 

aristocracies  have  always  lived  on  the  fiction  that  they 
exist  for  the  good  of  the  people,  and  yet  it  is  an  appalling 
fact  how  few  kings  have  loved  their  people  and  have  lived 
to  serve.  Usually  the  great  ones  have  regarded  the  people 
as  their  oyster.  In  ,a  similar  saying  reported  by  Luke, 
Jesus  wittily  adds  that  these  selfish  exploiters  of  the 
people  graciously  allow  themselves  to  be  called  "Bene- 
factors." His  eyes  were  open  to  the  unintentional  irony 
of  the  titles  in  which  the  "majesties,"  "excellencies," 
and  "holinesses"  of  the  world  have  always  decked  them- 
selves. Every  time  the  inbred  instinct  to  seek  precedence 
cropped  up  among  his  disciples  he  sternly  suppressed  it. 
They  must  not  allow  themselves  to  be  called  Rabbi  or 
Father  or  Master,  "for  all  ye  are  brothers."  Christ's 
ideal  of  society  involved  the  abolition  of  rank  and  the 
extinction  of  those  badges  of  rank  in  which  former  in- 
equality was  incrusted.  The  only  title  to  greatness  was 
to  be  distinguished  service  at  cost  to  self.  All  this  shows 
the  keenest  insight  into  the  masked  selfishness  of  those 
who  hold  power,  and  involves  a  revolutionary  conscious- 
ness, emancipated  from  reverence  for  things  as  they  are. 


By  Francis  Adams 
(See  pages  219,  266) 

'T~'AKE,  then,  your  paltry  Christ, 

-'-  Your  gentleman  God. 
We  want  the  carpenter's  son. 
With  his  saw  and  hod. 


ECCE  HOMO 

CONSTANTIN   MEUNIEB 

(Belgian  sculptor,  1831-190B) 


Jesus  349 

We  want  the  man  who  loved 

The  poor  and  the  oppressed, 
Who  hated  the  Rich  man  and  King 

And  the  Scribe  and  the  Priest. 

We  want  the  Galilean 

Who  knew  cross  and  rod. 
It's  your  "good  taste"  that  prefers 

A  bastard  "God!" 


ISLitt  ot  3f0u0 

By  Ernest  Renan 
(French  philosopher  and  historian,  1823-1892) 

I  "HE  chosen  flock  presented  in  fact  a  very  mixed 
■'-  character,  and  one  likely  to  astonish  rigorous  moral- 
ists. It  counted  in  its  fold  men  with  whom  a  Jew,  respect- 
ing himself,  would  not  have  associated.  Perhaps  Jesus 
found  in  this  society,  unrestrained  by  ordinary  rules, 
more  mind  and  heart  than  in  a  pedantic  and  formal 
middle  class,  proud  of  its  apparent  morality.  ...  He 
appreciated  conditions  of  soul  only  in  proportion  to  the 
love  mingled  therein.  Women  with  tearful  hearts,  and 
disposed  through  their  sins  to  feelings  of  humanity,  were 
nearer  to  his  kingdom  than  ordinary  natures,  who  often 
have  little  merit  in  not  having  fallen.  We  may  conceive 
on  the  other  hand  that  these  tender  souls,  finding  in  their 
conversion  to  the  sect  an  easy  means  of  restoration, 
would  passionately  attach  themselves  to  Him.  Far  from 
seeking  to  soothe  the  murmurs  stirred  up  by  his  disdain 
for  the  social  susceptibilities  of  the  time,  He  seemed  to 


SBO  The    Cry   for    Justice 

take  pleasure  in  exciting  them.  Never  did  anyone  avow 
more  loftily  this  contempt  for  the  "world,"  which  is  the 
essential  condition  of  great  things  and  great  originality. 
He  pardoned  a  rich  man,  but  only  when  the  rich  man, 
in  consequence  of  some  prejudice,  was  disliked  by  society. 
He  greatly  preferred  men  of  equivocal  life  and  of  small 
consideration  in  the  eyes  of  the  orthodox  leaders.  "The 
publicans  and  the  harlots  go  into  the  kingdom  of  God 
before  you.  For  John  came  unto  you  and  ye  believed 
him  not:  but  the  publicans  and  the  harlots  believed 
him."  We  can  understand  how  galHng  the  reproach  of 
not  having  followed  the  good  example  set  by  prostitutes 
must  have  been  to  men  making  a  profession  of  seriousness 
and  rigid  morality. 


From  the  Gospel  According  to  Luke 

A  ND  as  he  spake,  a  certain  Pharisee  besought  him  to 
■'*■  dine  with  him:  and  he  went  in,  and  sat  down  to 
meat.  And  when  the  Pharisee  saw  it,  he  marvelled  that 
he  had  not  first  washed  before  dinner. 

And  the  Lord  said  imto  him,  "Now  do  ye  Pharisees 
make  clean  the  outside  of  the  cup  and  the  platter;  but 
your  inward  part  is  full  of  ravening  and  wickedness. 
Ye  fools,  did  not  he,  that  made  that  which  is  without, 
make  that  which  is  within  also?  But  rather  give  alms  of 
such  things  as  ye  have;  and,  behold,  all  things  are  clean 
unto  you.  But  woe  unto  you,  Pharisees!  for  ye  tithe 
mint  and  rue  and  all  manner  of  herbs,  and  pass  over 
judgment  and  the  love  of  God;  these  ought  ye  to  have 
done,  and  not  to  leave  the  other  undone.  Woe  vmto 
you,  Pharisees!  for  ye  love  the  uppermost  seats  in  the 
synagogues,  and  greetings  in  the  markets.      Woe  unto 


Jesus  351 

you,  scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites!  for  ye  are  as  graves 
which  appear  not,  and  the  men  that  walk  over  them  are 
not  aware  of  them." 

Then  answered  one  of  the  lawyers,  and  said  imto  him, 
"Master,  thus  saying  thou  reproachest  us  also." 

And  he  said,  "Woe  unto  you,  also,  ye  lawyers,  for  ye 
lade  men  with  burdens  grievous  to  be  borne,  and  ye 
yourselves  touch  not  the  burdens  with  one  of  your  fingers. 
Woe  unto  you!  for  ye  build  the  sepulchres  of  the  prophets, 
and  yoiu-  fathers  killed  them.  .  .  .  Woe  imto  you,  law- 
yers! for  ye  have  taken  away  the  key  of  knowledge;  ye 
entered  not  in  yourselves,  and  them  that  were  entering 
in  ye  hindered." 

And  as  he  said  these  things  unto  them,  the  scribes 
and  the  Pharisees  began  to  urge  him  vehemently,  and  to 
provoke  him  to  speak  of  many  things:  laying  wait  for 
him,  and  seeking  to  catch  something  out  of  his  mouth, 
that  they  might  accuse  him. 


SL  1irtamp'0  €<fntt&&ion 

(From  "The  Cry  of  Youth") 

By  Harry  Kemp 

(See  page  37) 

WE  huddled  in  the  mission 
Fer  it  was  cold  outside, 
An'  listened  to  the  preacher 
Tell  of  the  Crucified; 

Without,  a  sleety  drizzle 

Cut  deep  each  ragged  form, — 

An'  so  we  stood  the  talkin' 
Fer  shelter  from  the  storm 


362  The    Cry   for    Justice 

They  sang  of  God  an'  angels, 

An'  heaven's  eternal  joy, 
An'  things  I  stopped  believin' 

When  I  was  still  a  boy; 

They  spoke  of  good  an'  evil. 

An'  offered  savin'  grace — 
An'  some  showed  love  for  mankin' 

A-shinin'  in  their  face, 

An'  some  their  graft  was  workin' 

The  same  as  me  an'  you: 
But  most  was  urgin'  on  us 

Wot  they  believed  was  true. 

We  sang  an'  dozed  an'  listened. 

But  only  feared,  us  men, 
The  time  when,  service  over, 

We'd  have  to  mooch  again 

An'  walk  the  icy  pavements 
An'  breast  the  snowstorm  gray 

Till  the  saloons  was  opened 
An'  there  was  hints  of  day. 

So,  when  they  called  out  "Sinners, 
Won't  you  come!"  I  came  .  .  . 

But  in  my  face  was  pallor 

And  in  my  heart  was  shame  .  . 

An'  so  forgive  me,  Jesus, 
Fer  mockin'  of  thy  name — 


Jesus  353 

Fer  I  was  cold  an'  hungry! 

They  gave  me  grub  an'  bed 
After  I  kneeled  there  with  them 

An'  many  prayers  was  said. 

An'  so  fergive  me,  Jesus, 

I  didn't  mean  no  harm — 
An'  outside  it  was  zero, 

An'  inside  it  was  warm.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  was  cold  an'  hungry, — 

An',  O  Thou  Crucified, 
Thou  friend  of  all  the  Lowly, 

Fergive  the  he  I  lied! 


%^t  Call  of  tje  Cacprntcc* 

By  Bouck  White 

(American  Congregational  clergyman,  born  1874;    imprisoned  for 
protesting  in  a  church  against  the  Colorado  massacres) 

JESUS  held  that  self-respect  required  of  the  rich  young 
man  that  he  refuse  to  accept  too  long  a  handicap 
over  his  fellows  in  the  race  of  hfe,  and  start  as  near  as 
may  be  from  the  same  mark  with  them.  But  he  went 
also  a  step  further.  He  exacted  of  the  yoimg  man  that 
he  de-class  himself.  "Come,  follow  me."  This  was  the 
staggerer.  To  stay  in  his  own  set  and  invest  his  fortune 
in  works  of  charity,  would  have  been  comparatively  easy. 
Philanthropy  has  been  fashionable  in  every  age.  Charity 
takes  the  insurrectionary  edge  off  of  poverty.     Therefore 

*  By  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
23 


354  The    Cry  for    Justice 

the  philanthropic  rich  man  is  a  benefactor  to  his  fellow 
magnates,  and  is  made  to  feel  their  gratitude;  to  him 
all  doors  of  fashion  swing.  But  Jesus  issued  a  veto.  He 
denied  the  legitimacy  of  alms-giving  as  a  plaster  for  the 
deep-lying  sore  in  the  social  tissue.  Neighborly  help,  man 
to  man,  was  acceptable  to  him,  and  he  commended  it. 
But  philanthropy  as  a  substitute  for  justice — he  would 
have  none  of  it.  Charity  is  twice  cursed — it  hardens  him 
that  gives  and  softens  him  that  takes.  It  does  more 
harm  to  the  poor  than  exploitation,  because  it  makes 
them  willing  to  be  exploited.  It  breeds  slavishness, 
which  is  moral  suicide.  The  only  thing  Jesus  would 
permit  a  swollen  fortime  to  do  was  to  give  itself  to  revo- 
lutionary propaganda,  in  order  that  swollen  fortunes 
might  be  forever  after  impossible.  Patchwork  reformers 
are  but  hewing  at  a  hydra.  Confronted  with  this  im- 
perative, the  rich  young  ruler  made  the  great  refusal. 
To  give  up  his  fashionable  set  and  join  himself  to  this 
company  of  working-class  Galileans,  was  a  moral  heroism 
to  which  he  was  unequal.  Therefore  he  was  sorrowful; 
he  went  away,  for  he  had  a  great  social  standing. 

Something  of  the  same  brand  of  atonement  was  evi- 
dently in  the  mind  of  Dives  when  he  awoke  to  the  mistake 
he  had  made — desirous  to  send  from  hell  and  tell  his 
five  brothers  to  use  the  family  fortune  in  erecting  a 
"Dives  Home  for  the  Hungry,"  belike  with  the  family 
name  and  coat  of  arms  over  the  front  portal.  Jesus  would 
concede  no  such  privilege.  He  referred  those  "five 
brethren"  to  "Moses  and  the  prophets;  let  them  hear 
them"— Moses  being  the  leader  of  the  labor  movement 
which  had  given  to  the  slaves  in  the  Goshen  brick-yards 
their  long-deferred  rights;  and  the  prophets  being  those 
ardent  Old  Testament  tribimes  of  the  people  who  had  so 


Jesus  365 

hotly  contended  for  the  family  idea  of  society  against  the 
exploiters  and  graspers  at  the  top.  Dante's  idea  that 
each  sin  on  earth  fashions  its  own  proper  punishment 
in  hell  receives  confirmation  in  this  parable.  "The  great 
gulf  fixed,"  which  constituted  Dives's  hell,  was  the  gulf 
which  he  himself  had  brought  about.  For  the  private 
fortune  he  amassed  had  broken  up  the  solidarity  of 
society — had  introduced  into  it  a  chasm  both  broad  and 
deep.  The  gulf  between  him  and  Lazarus  in  this  world 
exists  in  the  world  to  come  to  plague  him.  The  thirst 
which  parched  Dives's  tongue,  "being  in  torments,"  was 
the  thirst  for  companionship,  the  healing  contact  once 
more  with  his  fellows,  from  whom  his  fortune  had  sun- 
dered him  like  a  butcher's  cleaver.  Jesus  had  so  exalted 
a  notion  of  the  working  class,  their  absence  of  cant,  their 
rugged  facing  of  the  facts,  their  elemental  simplicities, 
their  first-hand  contact  with  the  realities  of  life,  that  he 
regarded  any  man  who  should  draw  himself  off  from  them 
in  a  fancied  superiority,  as  immeasurably  the  loser  thereby, 
and  as  putting  himself  "in  torments." 


{From  the  London  "Spectator") 
Anonymous 

STILL  he  lingers,  where  wealth  and  fashion 
Meet  together  to  dine  or  play — 
Lingers,  a  matter  of  vague  compassion, 
Out  in  the  darkness  across  the  way; 
Out  beyond  the  warmth  and  the  glitter, 

The  light  where  luxury's  laughter  rings, 
Lazarus  waits,  where  the  wind  is  bitter, 
Receiving  his  evil  things. 


356  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Still  ye  find  him  when,  breathless,  burning, 

Summer  flames  upon  square  and  street. 
When  the  fortunate  ones  of  the  earth  are  turning 

Their  thoughts  to  meadows  and  meadow-sweet; 
Far  away  from  the  wide  green  valley. 

The  bramble  patch  where  the  white-throat  sings, 
Lazarus  sweats  in  his  crowded  alley, 

Receiving  his  evil  things.  .  .  . 

In  the  name  of  Knowledge  the  race  grows  healthier, 

In  the  name  of  Freedom  the  world  grows  great; 
And  men  are  wiser,  and  men  are  wealthier. 

But — Lazarus  lies  at  the  rich  man's  gate. 
'    Lies  as  he  lay  through  human  history, 

Fame  of  heroes  and  pomp  of  kings. 
At  the  rich  man's  gate,  an  abiding  mystery, 

Receiving  his  evil  things. 


SL  Parabk 

By  James  Russell  Lowell 
(See  page  189) 

SAID  Christ  our  Lord,  "I  will  go  and  see 
How  the  men,  my  brethren,  believe  in  me." 
He  passed  not  again  through  the  gate  of  birth, 
But  made  himself  known  to  the  children  of  earth. 

Then  said  the  chief  priests,  and  rulers,  and  kings, 
"Behold,  now,  the  Giver  of  all  gocd  things; 
Go  to,  let  us  welcome  with  pomp  and  state 
Him  who  alone  is  mighty  and  great." 


Jesus  357 

With  carpets  of  gold  the  ground  they  spread 

Wherever  the  Son  of  Man  should  tread, 

And  in  palace  chambers  lofty  and  rare 

They  lodged  him,  and  served  him  with  kingly  fare. 

Great  organs  surged  through  arches  dim 
Their  jubilant  floods  in  praise  of  him; 
And  in  church,  and  palace,  and  judgment-hall, 
He  saw  his  image  high  over  all. 

But  still,  wherever  his  steps  they  led. 
The  Lord  in  sorrow  bent  down  his  head, 
And  from  under  the  heavy  foundation-stones 
The  son  of  Mary  heard  bitter  groans. 

And  in  chinch,  and  palace,  and  judgment-hall. 
He  marked  great  fissures  that  rent  the  wall. 
And  opened  wider  and  yet  more  wide 
As  the  living  foundation  heaved  and  sighed. 

"Have  ye  founded  your  thrones  and  altars,  then, 
On  the  bodies  and  souls  of  living  men? 
And  think  ye  that  building  shall  endure, 
Which  shelters  the  noble  and  crushes  the  poor? 

"With  gates  of  silver  and  bars  of  gold 

Ye  have  fenced  my  sheep  from  their  Father's  fold; 

I  have  heard  the  dropping  of  their  tears 

In  heaven  these  eighteen  hundred  years." 

"  O  Lord  and  Master,  not  ours  the  guilt, 
We  build  but  as  our  fathers  built; 
Behold  thine  images,  how  they  stand. 
Sovereign  and  sole,  through  all  our  land. 


358  The    Cry   for    Justice 

"Our  task  is  hard, — with  sword  and  flame 
To  hold  thine  earth  forever  the  same, 
And  with  sharp  crooks  of  steel  to  keep 
Still,  as  thou  leftest  them,  thy  sheep." 

Then  Christ  sought  out  an  artisan, 
A  low-browed,  stunted,  haggard  man, 
And  a  motherless  girl,  whose  fingers  thin 
Pushed  from  her  faintly  want  and  sin. 

These  set  he  in  the  midst  of  them, 
And  as  they  drew  back  their  garment-hem, 
For  fear  of  defilement,  "Lo,  here,"  said  he, 
"The  images  ye  have  made  of  me!" 


From  the  Gospel  According  to  Matthew 

I  'HEN  shall  the  King  say  unto  them  on  his  right  hand, 
■'-  "  Come,  ye  blessed  of  my  Father,  inherit  the  kingdom 
prepared  for  you  from  the  foundation  of  the  world:  For 
I  was  a  hungered,  and  ye  gave  me  meat;  I  was  thirsty, 
and  ye  gave  me  drink;  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me 
in;  naked,  and  ye  clothed  me;  I  was  sick,  and  ye  visited 
me;  I  was  in  prison,  and  ye  came  unto  me." 

Then  shall  the  righteous  answer  him,  saying,  "Lord, 
when  saw  we  thee  a  hungered,  and  fed  thee?  or  thirsty, 
and  gave  thee  drink?  when  saw  we  thee  a  stranger,  and 
took  thee  in?  or  naked,  and  clothed  thee?  or  when  saw 
we  thee  sick  or  in  prison,  and  came  irnto  thee?" 

And  the  King  shall  answer  and  say  imto  them,  "Verily 
I  say  unto  you,  inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one 
of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto 
me." 


Jesus  359 

Then  shall  he  say  also  unto  them  on  the  left  hand, 
"Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire,  pre- 
pared for  the  devil  and  his  angels:  for  I  was  a  hungered, 
and  ye  gave  me  no  meat;  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye  gave  me 
no  drink;  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  not  in; 
naked,  and  ye  clothed  me  not;  sick,  and  in  prison,  and 
ye  visited  me  not." 

Then  shall  they  also  answer  him,  saying,  "Lord,  when 
saw  we  thee  a  hungered,  or  athirst,  or  a  stranger,  or 
naked,  or  sick,  or  in  prison,  and  did  not  minister  unto 
thee?" 

Then  shall  he  answer  them,  saying,  "Verily  I  say  Tm.to 
you,  inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least  of  these, 
ye  did  it  not  to  me." 


(From  "  The  Frozen  Grail  and  other  Poems  ") 

By  Elsa  Barker 

(See  page  315) 

*  4/^HRIST  the  Lord  is  risen!" 

^^    Chant  the  Easter  children, 
Their  love-moulded  faces 
Limiinous  with  gladness. 
And  their  costly  raiment 
Gleaming  like  the  lilies. 

But  last  night  I  wandered 
Where  Christ  had  not  risen. 
Where  love  knows  no  gladness, 
Where  the  lord  of  Hunger 
Leaves  no  room  for  lilies. 
And  no  time  for  childhood. 


360  The    Cry   for    Justice 

And  today  I  wonder 
Whether  I  am  dreaming; 
For  above  the  swelling 
Of  their  Easter  music 
I  can  hear  the  murmur, 
"Suffer  aiZ  the  children." 

Nay,  the  world  is  dreaming! 
And  my  seeing  spirit 
Trembles  for  its  waking. 
When  their  Saviour  rises 
To  restore  the  lilies 
To  the  outcast  children. 


%^e  5Ducs(t 

By  Frederik  van  Eeden 

(The  most  widely  read  of  modern  Dutch  novels,  this  story  of  the 
life  of  "Little  Johannes"  is  perhaps  the  most  successful  of  the  many 
attempts  that  have  been  made  to  portray  the  coming  of  Jesus  into 
the  modern  world.  Johannes  is  a  boy  of  good  family,  who  meets 
a  strange,  homeless  workingman,  to  whom  he  becomes  devoted,  and 
whom  he  calls  his  "Brother."  The  present  selection  narrates  how 
Johannes  was  taken  to  church.) 

^''V/'OU  see.  Father,"  said  the  countess,  "we  have 
-•■     come  to  seek  Jesus.     Johannes,  also." 

"He  is  waiting  for  you,"  rephed  the  priest,  solemnly, 
pointing  out  the  great  crucifix  above  the  altar.  Then 
he  disappeared  into  the  sacristy. 

Johannes  immediately  fastened  his  eyes  upon  that 
figure,  and  continued  to  contemplate  it  while  the  people 
were  taking  their  places. 


Jesus  361 

It  hung  in  the  strongest  Ught  of  the  shadowy  church. 
Apparently  it  was  of  wood  stained  to  a  pale  rose,  with 
peculiar  blue  and  brown  shadows.  The  wounds  in  the 
side  and  under  the  thorns  on  the  forehead  were  distinct 
to  exaggeration — all  purple  and  swollen,  with  great 
streaks  of  blood  like  dark-red  sealing-wax.  The  face, 
with  its  closed  eyes,  wore  a  look  of  distress,  and  a  large 
circle  of  gold  and  precious  stones  waggishly  adorned  the 
usual  russet-colored,  cork-screwy,  woodeny  locks.  The 
cross  itself  was  of  shining  gold,  and  each  of  its  four 
extremities  was  ornamented,  while  a  nice,  wavy  paper 
above  the  head  bore  the  letters  I.  N.  R.  I.  One  could 
see  that  it  was  all  brand-new,  and  freshly  gilded  and 
painted.  Wreaths  and  bouquets  of  paper  flowers  embel- 
lished the  altar. 

For  a  long  time — perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour — 
Johannes  contiuued  to  look  at  the  image.  "That  is 
Jesus,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "He  of  whom  I  have 
so  often  heard.  Now  I  am  going  to  learn  about  Him, 
and  He  is  to  comfort  me.  He  it  is  who  has  redeemed 
the  world." 

But  however  often  he  might  repeat  this,  trying  seriously 
to  convince  himself — because  he  would  have  been  glad 
to  be  convinced  and  also  to  be  redeemed — he  could  never- 
theless see  nothing  except  a  repulsive,  ugly,  bloody, 
prinked-up  wooden  doll.  And  this  made  him  feel  doubly 
sorrowful  and  disheartened.  Fully  fifteen  minutes  had 
he  sat  there,  looking  and  musing,  hearing  the  people 
around  him  chatting — about  the  price  they  had  paid  for 
their  places,  about  the  keeping  on  or  taking  off  of  women's 
hats,  and  about  the  reserved  seats  for  the  first  families. 
Then  the  door  of  the  sacristy  opened,  and  the  choir-boys 
with  their  swinging  censers,  and  the  sacristan,  and  the 


36S  The    Cry   for    Justice 

priests  in  their  beautiful,  gold-bordered  garments,  came 
slowly  and  majestically  in.  And  as  the  congregation 
kneeled,  Johannes  kneeled  with  them. 

And  when  Johannes,  as  well  as  the  others,  looked  at 
the  incoming  procession,  and  then  again  turned  his  eyes 
to  the  high  altar,  behold!  there,  to  his  amazement,  kneel- 
ing before  the  white  altar,  he  saw  a  dark  form.  It  was 
in  plain  sight,  bending  forward  in  the  twilight,  the  arms 
upon  the  altar,  and  the  face  hidden  in  the  arms.  A  man 
it  was,  in  the  customary  dark  clothes  of  a  laborer.  No 
one — neither  Johannes  nor  probably  any  one  else  in  the 
church — had  seen  whence  he  came.  But  he  was  now 
in  the  full  sight  of  all,  and  one  could  hear  whisperings  and 
a  subdued  excitement  run  along  the  rows  of  people  and 
pass  on  to  the  rear,  like  a  gust  of  wind  over  a  grain- 
field. 

As  soon  as  the  procession  of  choir-boys  and  priests  came 
within  sight  ol  the  altar,  the  sacristan  stepped  hastily 
out  of  line  and  went  forward  to  the  stranger,  to  assure 
him  that,  possibly  from  too  deep  absorption  in  devotion, 
or  from  lack  of  familiarity  with  ecclesiastical  ceremony, 
he  was  guilty  of  intrusion. 

He  touched  the  man's  shoulder,  but  the  man  did  not 
stir.  In  the  breathless  stillness  that  followed,  while 
everyone  expectantly  awaited  the  outcome,  a  deep,  heart- 
rending sob  was  heard. 

"A  penitent!"  "A  drunken  man!"  "A  convert!" 
were  some  of  the  whispered  comments  of  the  people. 

The  perplexed  sacristan  turned  round,  and  beckoned 
Father  Canisius,  who,  with  impressive  bearing,  stepped 
up  in  his  white,  gold-threaded  garb,  as  imposingly  as  a 
full-sailed  frigate  moves 

"Your  place  is  not  here,"  said  the  priest,  in  his  deep 


Jesus  363 

voice.  He  spoke  kindly,  and  not  particularly  loudly. 
"Go  to  the  back  of  the  church." 

There  was  no  reply,  and  the  man  did  not  move;  yet, 
in  the  still  more  profoimd  silence,  his  weeping  was  so 
audible  that  many  people  shuddered. 

"Do  you  not  hear  me?"  said  the  priest,  raising  his 
voice  a  little,  and  speaking  with  some  impatience.  "It 
is  well  that  you  are  repentant,  but  only  the  consecrated 
belong  here — ^not  penitents." 

So  sajdng,  he  grasped  the  shoulder  of  the  stranger  with 
his  large,  strong  hand. 

Then,  slowly,  very  slowly,  the  kneeling  man  raised  his 
head  from  his  arms,  and  turned  his  face  toward  the  priest. 

What  followed,  perhaps  each  one  of  the  hundreds  of 
witnesses  would  tell  differently;  and  of  those  who  heard 
about  it  later,  each  had  a  different  idea.  But  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  what  Johannes  saw  and  heard — heard 
quite  as  clearly  as  you  have  seen  and  heard  the  members 
of  your  own  household,  today. 

He  saw  his  Brother's  face,  pale  and  illiunined,  as  if  his 
head  were  shone  upon  by  beams  of  clearest  sunlight. 
And  the  sadness  of  that  face  was  so  deep  and  unutter- 
able, so  bitter  and  yet  so  gentle,  that  Johaimes  felt  forced, 
through  pain,  to  press  both  hands  upon  his  heart,  and  to 
set  his  teeth,  while  he  gazed  with  wide,  tear-filled  eyes, 
forgetting  everything  save  that  shining  face  so  full  of 
grief. 

For  a  time  it  was  as  still  as  death,  while  man  and  priest 
regarded  each  other.     At  last  the  man  spoke,  and  said: 

"Who  are  you,  and  in  whose  name  are  you  here?" 

When  two  men  stand  thus,  face  to  face,  and  address 
each  other  with  all  earnestness  in  the  hearing  of  many 
others,  one  of  them  is  always  immediately  recognized  to 


364  The    Cry   for    Justice 

be  the  superior — even  if  the  Usteners  are  unable  to  gauge 
the  force  of  the  argiunent.  Every  one  feels  that  supe- 
riority, although  later  many  forget  or  deny  it.  If  that 
dominance  is  not  very  great,  it  arouses  spitefulness  and 
fury;  but  if  it  is  indeed  great,  it  brings,  betimes,  repose 
and  submissiveness. 

In  this  case  the  ascendency  was  so  great  that  the  priest 
lost  even  the  air  of  authority  and  assurance  with  which 
he  had  come  forward,  and  did  that  for  which,  later,  he 
reproached  himself — he  stopped  to  explain: 

"I  am  a  consecrated  priest  of  the  Triune  God,  and  I 
speak  in  the  name  of  om*  Lord  Jesus  Christ — our  Saviour 
and  Redeemer." 

There  ensued  a  long  silence,  and  Johannes  saw  nothing 
but  the  shining,  human  face  and  the  eyes,  which,  full  of 
sorrow  and  compassion,  continued  to  regard  the  richly 
robed  priest  with  a  bitter  smile.  The  priest  stood  motion- 
less, with  hanging  hands  and  staring  eyes,  as  if  uncertain 
what  next  to  say  or  do;  but  he  listened  silently  for  what 
was  coming,  as  did  Johannes  and  all  the  others  in  the 
church — as  if  \mder  an  overpowering  spell. 

«Then  came  the  following  words,  and  so  long  as  they 
sounded  no  one  could  think  of  anything  else — ^neither 
of  the  hmnble  garb  of  him  who  spoke,  nor  of  the  incom- 
prehensible subjection  of  his  gorgeously  arrayed  listener: 

"But  you  are  not  yet  a  man!  Would  you  be  a  priest 
of  the  Most  High? 

"You  are  not  yet  redeemed,  nor  are  these  others  with 
you  redeemed,  although  you  make  bold  to  say  so  in  the 
name  of  the  Redeemer. 

"Did  your  Saviour  when  upon  earth  wear  cloth  of 
silver  and  of  gold? 

"There  is  no  redemption  yet — ^neither  for  you  nor  for 


Jesus  365 

any  of  yours.  The  time  is  not  come  for  the  weariag  of 
garments  of  gold. 

"  Mock  not,  nor  slander.  Your  ostentation  is  a  travesty 
of  the  Most  High,  and  a  defamation  of  your  Saviour. 

"Do  you  esteem  the  kingdom  of  God  a  trifle,  that  you 
array  yomself  and  rejoice,  while  the  world  still  lies  in 
despair  and  in  shackles?  .  .  . 

"You  are  so  commanded  to  serve  your  Father  in  spirit 
and  in  truth,  and  you  have  served  Him  with  the  letter 
and  \vith  lies. 

"His  prophets,  who  loved  the  truth  better  than  their 
lives,  you  have  burned  at  the  stake,  and  have  made  them 
martyrs.  .  .  . 

"You  pull  the  carriage  of  prince  and  moneyed  man,  and 
make  grimaces  before  the  powerful. 

"They  build  your  churches,  and  you  say  masses  for 
them,  although  they  be  Satan  himself.  .  .  . 

"What  have  you  done  for  the  sheep  committed  to  your 
care — for  the  poor  and  bereaved — for  the  oppressed  and 
the  disinherited? 

"Submission  you  have  taught  them — ay — submission 
to  Mammon.  You  have  taught  them  to  bow  meelcly  to 
Satan. 

"God's  light — the  hght  of  knowledge — you  have  with- 
held from  them.     Woe  be  to  you! 

"You  have  taught  them  to  beg,  and  to  kiss  the  rod 
that  smote  them.  You  have  cloaked  the  shame  of  alms- 
receiving,  and  have  prated  of  honor  in  servitude. 

"Thus  have  you  humbled  man,  and  disfigured  the 
hmnan  soul.  .  .  . 

"Of  the  love  of  the  Father  you  have  made  commerce — 
a  sinful  merchandise.  Not  because  you  love  virtue  do 
you  preach  it,  but  because  of  the  sweet  profit.      You 


366  The    Cry   for    Justice 

promise  deliverance  to  all  who  follow  your  counsel;  but 
as  well  can  you  make  a  present  of  moon  and  stars. 

"Are  you  not  told  to  recompense  evil  with  good?  And 
is  God  less  than  man  that  He  should  do  otherwise? 

"It  is  well  for  you  that  He  does  not  do  otherwise,  for 
where  then  were  your  salvation? 

"  For  you,  and  you  only,  are  the  brood  of  vipers  against 
whom  is  kindled  the  wrath  of  Him  who  was  gentle  with 
adulterers  and  murderers." 

While  speaking,  the  man  had  risen  to  his  full  height, 
and  he  now  appeared,  to  all  there  assembled,  impressively 
tall. 

When  he  had  spoken,  reaching  his  right  hand  backward 
he  grasped  the  foot  of  the  great  golden  crucifix.  It 
snapped  off  like  glass,  and  he  threw  it  on  the  marble 
floor  at  the  feet  of  the  priest.  The  fragment  broke  into 
many  bits.     It  was  apparently  not  wood,  but  plaster. 

"Sacrilege!"  cried  the  priest,  in  a  stifled  voice,  as  if 
the  sound  were  wrung  from  his  throat.  His  eyes  seemed 
to  be  starting  out  of  his  great  purple  face. 

The  man  quietly  replied: 

"No,  but  my  right;  for  you  are  the  sacrilegist  and  the 
blasphemer  who  makes  of  the  Son  of  man  a  hideous 
caricature." 

Then  the  priest  stepped  forward,  and  gripped  Markus 
by  the  wrist.  The  latter  made  no  resistance,  but  cried 
in  a  loud  voice  that  reverberated  through  the  church: 

"Do  your  work,  Caiaphas!" 

After  that  he  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away  to  the 
sacristy. 


Jesus  367 

%lt  Smag:^  m  t^z  iFotum 

By  Robert  Buchanan 
(English  novelist  and  dramatist,  1814^1901) 

NOT  Baal,  but  Christus-Jingo!  Heir 
Of  him  who  once  was  crucified! 
The  red  stigmata  still  are  there, . 

The  crimson  spear-wounds  in  the  side; 
But  raised  aloft  as  God  and  Lord, 
He  holds  the  Money-bag  and  Sword. 

See,  underneath  the  Crown  of  Thorn, 
The  eye-balls  fierce,  the  features  grim! 

And  merrily  from  night  to  mom 

We  chaunt  his  praise  and  worship  him 

Great  Christus-Jingo,  at  whose  feet 

Christian  and  Jew  and  Atheist  meet! 

A  wondrous  god!  most  fit  for  those 
Who  cheat  on  'Change,  then  creep  to  prayer; 

Blood  on  his  heavenly  altar  flows, 
Hell's  burning  incense  fills  the  air, 

And  Death  attests  in  street  and  lane 

The  hideous  glory  of  his  reign. 

0  gentle  Jew,  from  age  to  age 

Walking  the  waves  thou  could'st  not  tame. 
This  god  hath  ta'en  thy  heritage, 

And  stolen  thy  sweet  and  stainless  Name! 
To  him  we  crawl  and  bend  the  knee. 
Naming  thy  Name,  but  scorning  Thee! 


368  The    Cry   for    Justice 

'^Tfie  SUttt&t 

By  Frederik  van  Eeden 

(Sequel  to  the  scene  quoted  on  page  360.     Jesus  has  been  held  for 
examination  as  to  his  sanity) 

*  *  "T^OES    he    often    have    those    whims,    Johannes," 

■L- ^  asked  Dr.  Cijfer,  "when  he  will  not  speak?" 

"He  has  no  whims,"  said  Johannes,  stoutly. 

"Why,  then,  will  he  not  reply?" 

"  I  think  you  would  not  answer  me,"  returned  Johannes, 
"if  I  were  to  ask  you  if  you  were  mad." 

The  two  learned  men  exchanged  smiles. 

"That  is  a  somewhat  different  situation,"  said  Bom- 
meldoos,  haughtily. 

"He  was  not  questioned  in  such  a  blunt  manner  as 
that,"  explained  Doctor  Cijfer.  "I  asked  about  his 
extraction,  his  age,  the  health  of  his  father  and  mother, 
about  his  own  youth,  and  so  forth — the  usual  memory 
promptings.  Will  you  not  give  us  some  further  informa- 
tion concerning  him?  Remember,  it  is  of  real  importance 
to  your  brother." 

"Mijnheer,"  said  Johannes,  "I  know  as  little  as  your- 
self about  all  that.  ..." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  nurse  came 
and  said,  "Here  is  the  patient."  Then  he  let  Markus 
in.  .  .  . 

Markus  had  on  a  dark-blue  linen  blouse,  such  as  all 
the  patients  of  the  working-class  wear.  He  stood  tall 
and  erect,  and  Johannes  observed  that  his  face  was  less 
pale  and  sad  than  usual.  The  blue  became  his  dark  curl- 
ing hair,  and  Johannes  felt  happy  and  confident  as  he 
looked  at  him — standing  there  so  proud  and  calm  and 
handsome. 


Jesus  369 

"Take  a  seat,"  said  Dr.  Cijfer. 

But  Markus  seemed  not  to  have  heard,  and  remained 
standing,  while  he  nodded  kindly  and  reassuringly  to 
Johannes. 

"Observe  his  pride,"  said  Professor  Bonuneldoos,  in 
Latin  to  Dr.  Cijfer. 

"The  proud  find  pride,  and  the  gloomy,  gloom;  but 
the  glad  find  gladness,  and  the  lowly,  humility,"  said 
Markus. 

Dr.  Cijfer  stood  up,  and  took  his  measuring  instrument 
from  the  table.     Then,  in  a  quiet,  courteous  tone,  he  said: 

"Will  you  not  permit  us,  Mijnheer,  to  take  your  head 
measure?     It  is  for  a  scientific  pm^pose?" 

"It  gives  no  pain,"  added  Bommeldoos. 

"Not  to  the  body,"  said  Markus. 

Said  Dr.  Cijfer,  "There  is  nothing  in  it  to  offend  one. 
I  have  had  it  done  to  myself  many  a  time." 

"There  is  a  kind  of  opinionativeness  and  denseness 
that  offend." 

Bommeldoos  fiushed.  "Opinionativeness  and  dense- 
ness! Mine,  perchance?  Am  I  such  an  ignoramus? 
Opinionated  and  stupid!" 

"Colleague!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Cijfer,  in  gentle  expostu- 
lation. And  then,  as  he  enclosed  Markus's  head  with 
the  shining  craniometer,  he  gave  the  measurement  figures. 
A  considerable  time  passed,  nothing  being  heard  save  the 
low  voice  of  the  doctor  dictating  the  figures.  Then,  as 
if  proceeding  with  his  present  occupation,  taking  advan- 
tage of  what  he  considered  a  compliant  mood  of  the 
patient,  the  crafty  doctor  fancied  he  saw  his  opportunity, 
and  said: 

"Your  parents  certainly  dwelt  in  another  country — 
one  more  southerly  and  more  mountainous." 

24 


370  The    Cry   for    Justice 

But  Markus  removed  the  doctor's  hand,  with  the 
instrument,  from  his  head,  and  looked  at  him  piercingly. 

"Why  are  you  not  sincere?"  he  then  asked,  with  gentle 
stress.     "How  can  truth  be  found  through  untruth?" 

Dr.  Cijfer  hesitated,  and  then  did  exactly  what  Father 
Canisius  had  done — something  which,  later,  he  was  of 
the  opinion  he  ought  not  to  have  done:  he  argued  with 
him. 

"But  if  you  will  not  give  me  a  direct  reply  I  am  obliged 
to  get  the  truth  circuitously." 

Said  Markus,  "A  curved  sword  will  not  go  far  into  a 
straight  scabbard." 

Professor  Bommeldoos  grew  impatient,  and  snapped 
at  the  doctor  aside,  in  a  smothered  voice:  "Do  not 
argue.  Colleague,  do  not  argue!  Megalomaniacs  are 
smarter,  and  sometimes  have  subtler  dialectic  faculties 
than  you  have.     Just  let  me  conduct  the  examination." 

And  then,  after  a  loud  "h'm!  h'm!"  he  said  to  Markus: 

"...  Now  just  tell  me,  frankly,  my  friend,  are  you 
a  prophet?  An  apostle?  Are  you  perhaps  the  King? 
Or  are  you  God  himself?" 

Markus  was  silent. 

"Why  do  you  not  answer  now?" 

"Because  I  am  not  being  questioned." 

"Not  being  questioned!    What,  then,  am  I  now  doing?" 

"Raving,"  said  Markus. 

Bommeldoos  flushed,  and  lost  his  composure. 

"Be  careful,  my  friend.  You  must  not  be  impertinent. 
Remember  that  we  may  decide  your  fate  here." 

Markus  lifted  his  head,  with  a  questioning  air,  so 
earnest  that  the  professor  held  his  peace. 

"With  whom  rests  the  decision  of  our  fate?"  asked 
Markus.  Then,  pointing  with  his  finger:  "Do  you  con- 
sider yourself  the  one  to  decide?" 


Jesus  371 

After  that  he  uttered  not  a  word.  Dr.  Cijfer  questioned 
with  gentle  stress,  Professor  Bommeldoos  with  vehement 
energy;  but  Markus  was  silent,  and  seemed  not  to  notice 
that  there  were  others  in  the  room. 

"I  adhere  to  my  diagnosis,  Colleague,"  said  Bom- 
meldoos. 

Dr.  Cijfer  rang,  and  ordered  the  nurse  to  come. 

"Take  the  patient  to  his  ward  again.  He  will  remain, 
for  the  present,  under  observation." 

Markus  went,  after  making  a  short  but  kindly  inclina- 
tion of  the  head  to  Johannes. 

"Will  you  not  tell  us  now,  Johannes,  what  you  know 
of  this  person?"  asked  Dr.  Cijfer. 

"Mijnheer,"  replied  Johannes,  "I  know  but  little 
more  of  him  than  you  do  yourself.  I  met  him  two  years 
ago,  and  he  is  my  dearest  friend;  but  I  have  seen  him 
rarely,  and  have  never  inquired  about  his  life  nor  his 
origin." 

"Remarkable!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Cijfer. 

"Once  again.  Colleague,  I  stand  by  my  diagnosis," 
said  Bommeldoos.  "Initial  paranoia,  with  megalomani- 
acal  symptoms,  on  the  basis  of  hereditary  inferiority,  with 
vicarious  genius." 


By  Percy  Adams  Hutchison 

(American  poet,  born  1875) 

"  Vicisti  Galilaee" 

/{^,  down  the  years  behold  he  rides, 
-'*■  The  lowly  Christ,  upon  an  ass; 
But  conquering?     Ten  shall  heed  the  call, 
A  thousand  idly  watch  him  pass : 


372  The    Cry   for    Justice 

They  watch  him  pass,  or  lightly  hold 

In  mock  lip-loyalty  his  name : 
A  thousand — were  they  his  to  lead! 

But  meek,  without  a  sword,  he  came. 

A  myriad  horsemen  swept  the  field 

With  Attila,  the  whirlwind  Hun; 
A  myriad  cannon  spake  for  him, 

The  silent,  dread  Napoleon. 

For  these  had  ready  spoil  to  give. 
Had  reeking  spoil  for  savage  hands; 

Slaves,  and  fair  wives,  and  pillage  rare : 
The  wealth  of  cities :   teeming  lands. 

And  if  the  world,  once  drunk  with  blood, 
Sated,  has  turned  from  arms  to  peace, 

Man  hath  not  lost  his  ancient  lusts; 
The  weapons  change;  war  doth  not  cease. 

The  mother  in  the  stifling  den, 

The  brain-dulled  child  beside  the  loom. 

The  hordes  that  swarm  and  toil  and  starve — 
We  laugh,  and  tread  them  to  their  doom. 

They  shriek,  and  cry  their  prayers  to  Christ; 

And  lift  wan  faces,  hands  that  bleed: 
In  vain  they  pray,  for  what  is  Christ? 

A  leader — without  men  to  lead. 

Ah,  piteous  Christ  afar  he  rides! 

We  see  him,  but  the  face  is  dim; 
We  that  would  leap  at  crash  of  drums 

Are  slow  to  rise  and  follow  him. 


DESPISED  AND   REJECTED  OF   J\IEN 

SIGISMUND    GOETZE 

(Conteni purary  German  painter) 


Jesus  373 

l^oto  Hong,  flD  EorH 

By  Hall  Caine 
(English  novelist  and  dramatist,  born  1853) 

T  OOK  down,  0  Lord,  look  down.  Are  the  centuries 
■' — '  a  waste?  Nigh  upon  two  thousand  years  have  gone 
since  Thou  didst  walk  the  world,  and  the  face  of  things 
is  not  unchanged.  In  Thy  Name  now  doth  the  Pharisee 
give  alms  in  the  street  to  the  sound  of  a  triunpet  going 
before  him.  In  Thy  Name  now  doth  the  Levite  pass  by 
on  the  other  side  when  a  man  hath  fallen  among  thieves. 
In  Thy  Name  now  doth  the  lawyer  lay  on  the  poor  bur- 
dens grievous  to  be  borne.  In  Thy  Name  now  doth  the 
priest  buy  and  sell  the  glad  tidings  of  the  kingdom, 
giving  for  the  gospel  of  God  the  commandments  of  men, 
living  in  rich  men's  houses,  faring  sumptuously  every  day, 
praying  with  his  lips,  "Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread," 
but  saying  to  his  soul,  "Soul,  thou  hast  much  goods  laid 
up  for  many  years:  take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry." 

Do  men  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles? 
Is  it  this  Thy  gospel  that  yields  that  Thy  fruit?  Then 
will  the  master  of  the  vineyard  come  shortly  and  say, 
"Cut  it  down;  why  cumbereth  it  the  groimd?" 


374  The    Cry   for    Justice 

{From  "Resurrection") 

By  Leo  Tolstoy 
(See  pages  88,  110,  148,  276) 

THE  service  began. 
It  consisted  of  the  following.  The  priest,  having 
dressed  himself  up  in  a  strange  and  very  inconvenient 
garb  of  gold  cloth,  cut  and  arranged  little  bits  of  bread 
on  a  saucer  and  then  put  most  of  them  in  a  cup  with  wine, 
repeating  at  the  same  time  different  names  and  prayers. 
Meanwhile  the  deacon  first  read  Slavonic  prayers,  difficult 
to  xinderstand  in  themselves,  and  rendered  still  more 
incomprehensible  by  being  read  very  fast;  he  then  sang 
them  turn  and  turn  about  with  the  convicts. 

The  essence  of  the  service  consisted  in  the  supposition 
that  the  bits  of  bread  cut  up  by  the  priest  and  put  into  the 
wine,  when  manipulated  and  prayed  over  in  a  certain 
way,  turned  into  the  flesh  and  blood  of  God. 

These  manipulations  consisted  in  the  priest,  hampered 
by  the  gold  cloth  sack  he  had  on,  regularly  lifting  and 
holding  up  his  arms  and  then  sinking  to  his  knees  and 
kissing  the  table  and  all  that  was  on  it;  but  chiefly  in  his 
taking  a  cloth  by  two  of  its  comers  and  waving  it  rhythmi- 
cally and  softly  over  the  silver  saucer  and  the  golden  cup. 
It  was  supposed  that  at  this  point  the  bread  and  the  wine 
turned  into  flesh  and  blood;  therefore  this  part  of  the 
service  was  performed  with  the  utmost  solemnity.  And 
the  convicts  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  bowed,  first 
at  each  sentence,  then  after  every  two,  and  then  after 
three;  and  all  were  very  glad  when  the  glorification  ended 


Jesus  375 

and  the  priest  shut  the  book  with  a  sigh  of  reUef  and 
retired  behind  the  partition.  One  last  act  remained.  The 
priest  took  from  a  table  a  large  gilt  cross  with  enamel 
medallions  at  the  ends,  and  came  out  into  the  center  of 
the  church  with  it.  First  the  iospector  came  up  and 
kissed  the  cross,  then  the  jailers,  and  then  the  convicts, 
pushing  and  jostling,  and  abusing  each  other  in  whispers. 
The  priest,  talking  to  the  iaspector,  pushed  the  cross  and 
his  hand,  now  against  the  mouths  and  now  against  the 
noses  of  the  convicts,  who  were  trying  to  kiss  both  the 
cross  and  the  hand  of  the  priest.  And  thus  ended  the 
Christian  service,  intended  for  the  comfort  and  edification 
of  these  brothers  who  had  gone  astray. 

And  none  of  these  present,  from  the  inspector  down, 
seemed  conscious  of  the  fact  that  this  Jesus,  whose  name 
the  priest  repeated  such  a  great  number  of  times,  whom  he 
praised  with  all  these  ciu'ious  expressions,  had  forbidden 
the  very  things  that  were  being  done  there;  that  he  had 
not  only  prohibited  this  meaningless  much-speaking  and 
the  blasphemous  incantation  over  the  bread  and  wine, 
but  had  also,  in  the  clearest  words,  forbidden  men  to  call 
other  men  their  master  or  to  pray  in  temples;  had  taught 
that  every  one  should  pray  in  solitude;  had  forbidden  to 
erect  temples,  saying  that  he  had  come  to  destroy  them, 
and  that  one  should  worship  not  in  a  temple,  but  in  spirit 
and  in  truth;  and,  above  all,  that  not  only  had  he  forbid- 
den to  judge,  to  imprison,  to  torment,  to  execute  men,  as 
was  done  here,  but  had  even  prohibited  any  kind  of 
violence,  saying  that  he  had  come  to  give  freedom  to  the 
captives. 

No  one  present  seemed  conscious  that  all  that  was  going 
on  here  was  the  greatest  blasphemy,  and  a  mockery  of 
that  same  Christ  in  whose  name  it  was  being  done.     No 


376  The    Cry   for    Justice 

one  seemed  to  realize  that  the  gilt  cross  with  the  enamel 
medallions  at  the  ends,  which  the  priest  held  out  to  the 
people  to  be  kissed,  was  nothing  but  the  emblem  of  that 
gallows  on  which  Christ  had  been  executed  for  denouncing 
just  what  was  going  on  here.  That  these  priests,  who 
imagined  they  were  eating  and  drinking  the  body  and 
blood  of  Christ  in  the  form  of  bread  and  wine,  did  in 
reality  eat  and  drink  his  flesh  and  his  blood,  only  not  as 
wine  and  bits  of  bread,  but  by  ensnaring  "these  httle 
ones"  with  whom  he  identified  himself,  by  depriving  them 
of  the  greatest  blessings  and  submitting  them  to  most 
cruel  torments,  and  by  hiding  from  men  the  tidings  of 
great  joy  which  he  had  brought — that  thought  did  not 
enter  the  mind  of  any  one  present. 


'^ttmt  a  Crttcttfe 

By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 
(English  poet  of  natvire  and  liberty,  1837-1909) 

TTERE,  down  between  the  dusty  trees, 
■*■  -I-  At  this  lank  edge  of  haggard  wood. 
Women  with  labor-loosened  knees, 

With  gaimt  backs  bowed  by  servitude. 
Stop,  shift  their  loads,  and  pray,  and  fare 
Forth  with  souls  easier  for  the  prayer. 

The  suns  have  branded  black,  the  rains 
Striped  gray  this  piteous  God  of  theirs; 

The  face  is  full  of  prayers  and  pains. 
To  which  they  bring  their  pains  and  prayers; 

Lean  Hmbs  that  shew  the  laboring  bones. 

And  ghastly  mouth  that  gapes  and  groans. 


Jesus  377 

God  of  this  grievous  people,  wrought 

After  the  hkeness  of  their  race, 
By  faces  Uke  thine  own  besought. 

Thine  own  blind  helpless,  eyeless  face, 
I  too,  that  have  nor  tongue  nor  knee 
For  prayer,  I  have  a  word  to  thee. 

It  was  for  this  then,  that  thy  speech 

Was  blown  about  the  world  in  flame 
And  men's  souls  shot  up  out  of  reach 

Of  fear  or  lust  or  thwarting  shame — 
That  thy  faith  over  souls  should  pass 
As  sea-winds  burning  the  grey  grass? 

It  was  for  this,  that  prayers  like  these 
Should  spend  themselves  about  thy  feet, 

And  with  hard  overlabored  knees 

Kneeling,  these  slaves  of  men  should  beat 

Bosoms  too  lean  to  suckle  sons 

And  fruitless  as  their  orisons? 

It  was  for  this,  that  men  should  make 

Thy  name  a  fetter  on  men's  necks, 
Poor  men  made  poorer  for  thy  sake. 

And  women  withered  out  of  sex? 
It  was  for  this,  that  slaves  should  be, 
Thy  word  was  passed  to  set  men  free? 

The  nineteenth  wave  of  the  ages  rolls 

Now  deathward  since  thy  death  and  birth. 

Hast  thou  fed  full  men's  starved-out  souls? 
Hast  thou  brought  freedom  upon  earth? 

Or  are  there  less  oppressions  done 

In  this  wild  world  under  the  sun? 


S78  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Nay,  if  indeed  thou  be  not  dead, 

Before  thy  terrene  shrine  be  shaken. 
Look  down,  turn  usward,  bow  thine  head; 

0  thou  that  wast  of  God  forsaken. 
Look  on  thine  household  here,  and  see 
These  that  have  not  forsaken  thee. 

Thy  faith  is  fire  upon  their  lips, 

Thy  kingdom  golden  in  their  hands; 
They  scourge  us  with  thy  words  for  whips, 

They  brand  us  with  thy  words  for  brands; 
The  thirst  that  made  thy  dry  throat  shrink 
To  their  moist  mouths  commends  the  drink.  .  .  . 

O  sacred  head,  0  desecrate, 

O  labor-wounded  feet  and  hands, 
O  blood  pom-ed  forth  in  pledge  to  fate 

Of  nameless  lives  in  divers  lands, 
0  slain  and  spent  and  sacrificed 
People,  the  grey-grown  speechless  Christ! 

Is  there  a  gospel  in  the  red 

Old  witness  of  thy  wide-mouthed  wounds? 
From  thy  blind  stricken  tongueless  head 

What  desolate  evangel  sounds 
A  hopeless  note  of  hope  deferred? 
What  word,  if  there  be  any  word? 

O  son  of  man,  beneath  man's  feet 

Cast  down,  0  common  face  of  man 
Whereon  all  blows  and  buffets  meet, 

0  royal,  0  republican 
Face  of  the  people  bruised  and  dumb 
And  longing  till  thy  kingdom  come!  .  .  . 


J  esus  379 

The  tree  of  faith  ingraft  by  priests 

Puts  its  foul  foliage  out  above  thee, 
And  round  it  feed  man-eating  beasts 

Because  of  whom  we  dare  not  love  thee; 
Though  hearts  reach  back  and  memories  ache, 
We  cannot  praise  thee  for  their  sake.  .  .  . 

Nay,  if  their  God  and  thou  be  one, 

If  thou  and  this  thing  be  the  same, 
Thou  shouldst  not  look  upon  the  sun; 

The  sun  grows  haggard  at  thy  name. 
Come  down,  be  done  with,  cease,  give  o'er; 
Hide  thyself,  strive  not,  be  no  more.  J 


BOOK  VIII 

The  Church 


Contains  passages,  both  of  exhortation  and  denunciation,  dealing 

with  the  relation  of  the  chtirch  toward  modem  problems,  and 

the  effort  to  bring  back  a  property-strangled  institution  to  the 

revolutionary  gospel  of  its  founder. 


(Boti  anil  9^t  ^tis^bot 

Bt  Robert  Blatchford 
(See  pages  66,  121,  170) 

*  *  "POR  all  that,  Robert,  you're  a  notorious  Infidel."    I 

•^  paused — just  opposite  the  Tivoli — and  gazed  mood- 
ily up  and  down  the  Strand. 

As  I  have  remarked  elsewhere,  I  like  the  Strand.  It  is 
a  very  human  place.  But  I  own  that  the  Strand  lacks 
dignity  and  beauty,  and  that  amongst  its  varied  odors 
the  odor  of  sanctity  is  scarcely  perceptible. 

There  are  no  trees  in  the  Strand.  The  thoroughfare 
should  be  wider.  The  architecture  is,  for  the  most  part, 
banal.  For  a  chief  street  in  a  Christian  capital,  the 
Strand  is  not  eloquent  of  high  national  ideals. 

There  are  derelict  churches  in  the  Strand,  and  dingy, 
blatant  taverns,  and  strident  signs  and  hoardings;  and 
there  are  slmns  hard  by. 

There  are  thieves  in  the  Strand,  and  prowling  vagrants, 
and  gaunt  hawkers,  and  touts,  and  gamblers,  and  loitering 
failures,  with  tragic  eyes  and  wilted  garments;  and  prosti- 
tutes plying  for  hire. 

And  east  and  west,  and  north  and  south  of  the  Strand, 
there  is  London.  Is  there  a  man  amongst  all  London's 
millions  brave  enough  to  tell  the  naked  truth  about  the 
vice  and  crime,  the  misery  and  meanness,  the  hypocrisies 
and  shames  of  the  great,  rich,  heathen  city?  Were  such 
a  man  to  arise  amongst  us  and  voice  the  awful  truth,  what 
would  his  reception  be?  How  would  he  fare  at  the  hands 
of  the  Press,  and  the  PubUc — and  the  Church? 

(383) 


384  The    Cry   for    Justice 

As  London  is,  so  is  England.  This  is  a  Christian  coun- 
try. What  would  Christ  think  of  Park  Lane,  and  the 
slums,  and  the  hoohgans?  What  would  He  think  of  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  the  music  hall,  and  the  race-course? 
What  would  He  think  of  our  national  ideals?  What 
would  He  think  of  the  House  of  Peers,  and  the  Bench 
of  Bishops,  and  the  Yellow  Press? 

Pausing  again,  over  against  Exeter  Hall,  I  mentally 
apostrophize  the  Christian  British  people.  "Ladies  and 
Gentlemen,"  I  say,  "you  are  Christians  in  name,  but  I 
discern  little  of  Christ  in  your  ideals,  your  institutions,  or 
yom-  daily  lives.  Ypu  are  a  mercenary,  self-indulgent, 
frivolous,  boastful,  blood-guilty  mob  of  heathen.  I  like 
you  very  much,  but  that  is  what  you  are.  And  it  is  you — 
you  who  call  men  'Infidels.'  You  ridiculous  creatures, 
what  do  you  mean  by  it?" 

If  to  praise  Christ  in  words,  and  deny  Him  in  deeds,  be 
Christianity,  then  London  is  a  Christian  city,  and  Eng- 
land is  a  Christian  nation.  For  it  is  very  evident  that  oiu- 
common  English  ideals  are  anti-Christian,  and  that  oinr 
commercial,  foreign,  and  social  affairs  are  run  on  anti- 
Christian  lines. 

Renan  says,  in  his  lAfe  of  Jesus,  that  "were  Jesus  to 
return  amongst  us  He  would  recognize  as  His  disciples, 
not  those  who  imagine  they  can  compress  Him  into  a  few 
catechismal  phrases,  but  those  who  labour  to  carry  on  his 
work." 

My  Christian  friends,  I  am  a  Socialist,  and  as  such 
believe  in,  and  work  for,  vmiversal  freedom,  and  imiversal 
brotherhood,  and  universal  peace. 

And  you  are  Christians,  and  I  am  an  "Infidel." 
Well,  be  it  even  so. 


The    Church  385 


From  the  Gospel  of  Luke 

WHEN  he  was  come  near,  he  beheld  the  city,  and 
wept  over  it,  saying,  if  thou  hadst  known,  even 
thou,  at  least  in  this  thy  day,  the  things  which  belong  unto 
thy  peace! 


•  JFtom  tjf  ©ottom  Bp 

By  Alexander  Irvine         V 

(The  life-story  of  an  Irish  peasant  lad,  born  1863,  who  became  in 
turn  stableman,  man-of-war's-man,  slum-missionary, 
clergyman,  and  Socialist  agitator) 

A  FTER  some  years'  experience  in  missions  and  mission 
^^  churches,  I  would  find  it  very  hard  if  I  were  a  work- 
ingman  living  in  a  tenement  not  to  be  antagonistic  to 
them;  for,  in  large  measure,  such  work  is  done  on  the 
assumption  that  people  are  poor  and  degraded  through 
laxity  in  morals.  The  scheme  of  salvation  is  a  salvation 
for  the  individual;  social  salvation  is  out  of  the  question. 
Social  conditions  cannot  be  touched,  because  in  all  rotten 
social  conditions,  there  is  a  thin  red  line  which  always  leads 
to  the  rich  man  or  woman  who  is  responsible  for  them. 

Coming  in  contact  with  these  ugly  social  facts  continu- 
ously, led  me  to  this  belief.  It  came  very  slowly;  as  did 
also  the  opinion  that  the  missionary  himself  or  the  pastor, 
be  he  as  wise  as  Solomon,  as  eloquent  as  Demosthenes,  as 
virtuous  as  St.  Francis,  has  no  social  standing  whatever 
among  the  people  whose  alms  support  the  institutions, 
religious  and  philanthropic,  of  which  he  is  the  executive 
head.  The  fellowship  of  the  saints  is  a  pure  fiction,  has 
absolutely  no  foimdation  in  fact  in  a  city  Uke  New  York 
except  as  the  poor  saints  have  it  by  themselves. 

35 


S86  The    Cry   for    Justice 

From  the  Gospel  of  John 

IF  a  man  say,  I  love  God,  and  hateth  his  brother,  he  is  a 
liar:  for  he  that  loveth  not  his  brother  whom  he  hath 
seen,  cannot  love  God  whom  he  hath  not  seen.  And  this 
commandment  have  we  from  him,  that  he  who  loveth  God 
love  his  brother  also. 


W^t  M0ine  ot  tSe  Cup* 

By  Winston  Churchill 

(One  of  the  most  popular  of  American  novelists,  born  1871.  This 
story  has  for  its  theme  the  failure  of  the  Church  in  the  face  of 
modern  social  problems.  In  the  following  scene  a  rich  man  is 
rebuked  by  his  pastor) 

THE  perceptions  of  the  banker  were  keen,  and  his  sense 
of  security  was  brief.  Somehow,  as  he  met  the  search- 
ing eye  of  the  rector,  he  was  unable  to  see  the  man  as 
a  visionary,  but  beheld  and, — to  do  him  justice — felt  a 
twinge  of  respect  for  an  adversary  worthy  of  his  steel.  He, 
who  was  accustomed  to  prepare  for  clouds  when  they  were 
mere  specks  on  his  horizon,  paused  even  now  to  marvel  why 
he  had  not  dealt  with  this.  Here  was  a  man — a  fanatic, 
if  he  liked — but  still  a  man  who  positively  did  not  fear 
him,  to  whom  his  Avrath  and  power  were  as  nothing!  A 
new  and  startling  and  complicated  sensation — ^but  Eldon 
Parr  was  no  coward.  If  he  had,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, formerly  looked  upon  the  clergyman  as  a  depend- 
ent, Hodder  appeared  to  be  one  no  more.  The  very  rug- 
gedness  of  the  man  had  enhanced,  expanded — as  it 
were — until  it  filled  the  room.     And  Hodder  had,  with 


*  By  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Co. 


The    Church  387 

an  audacity  unparalleled  in  the  banker's  experience, 
arraigned  by  implication  his  whole  life,  managed  to  put 
him  on  the  defensive. 

"But  if  that  has  become  your  philosophy,"  the  rector 
said — "that  a  man  must  look  out  for  himself — ^what  is  it 
in  you  that  impels  you  to  give  these  large  sums  for  the 
public  good?" 

"I  should  suppose  that  you,  as  a  clergyman,  might 
understand  that  my  motive  is  a  Christian  one." 

Hodder  sat  very  still,  but  a  higher  light  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"Mr.  Parr,"  he  replied,  "I  have  been  a  friend  of  yours, 
and  I  am  a  friend  still.  And  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
is  not  only  in  the  hope  that  others  may  benefit,  but  that 
your  own  soul  may  be  saved.  I  mean  that  literally — ^your 
own  soul.  You  are  under  the  impression  that  you  are  a 
Christian,  but  you  are  not  and  never  have  been  one.  And 
you  will  not  be  one  until  your  whole  life  is  transformed, 
until  you  become  a  different  man.  If  you  do  not  change, 
it  is  my  duty  to  warn  you  that  sorrow  and  suffering,  the 
uneasiness  which  you  now  know,  and  which  drive  you  on, 
in  search  of  distraction,  to  adding  useless  sums  of  money  to 
your  fortune — this  suffering,  I  say,  will  become  intensified. 
You  will  die  in  the  knowledge  of  it,  and  live  on  after,  in 
the  knowledge  of  it." 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  financier  drew  back  before  this 
unexpected  blast,  the  very  intensity  of  which  had  struck 
a  chill  of  terror  in  his  inmost  being.  He  had  been  taken 
off  his  guard, — for  he  had  supposed  the  day  long  past — 
if  it  had  ever  existed — when  a  spiritual  rebuke  would 
upset  him;  the  day  long  past  when  a  minister  could  pro- 
nounce one  with  any  force.  That  the  Church  should  ever 
again  presume  to  take  herself  seriously  had  never  occurred 


S88  The    Cry   for    Justice 

to  him.  And  yet — the  man  had  denounced  hun  in  a 
moment  of  depression,  of  nervous  irritation  and  exaspera- 
tion agaiast  a  government  which  had  begun  to  interfere 
with  the  sacred  hberty  of  its  citizens,  against  pohtical 
agitators  who  had  spurred  that  government  on.  The 
world  was  mad.  No  element,  it  seemed,  was  now  content 
to  remain  in  its  proper  place.  His  voice,  as  he  answered, 
shook  with  rage, — all  the  greater  because  the  undaunted 
sternness  by  which  it  was  confronted  seemed  to  reduce 
it  to  futility. 

"Take  care!"  he  cried,  "take  care!  You,  nor  any  other 
man,  clergyman  or  no  clergyxaan,  have  any  right  to  be  the 
judge  of  my  conduct." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Hodder,  "if  your  conduct 
affects  the  welfare,  the  progress,  the  reputation  of  the 
church  of  which  I  am  rector,  I  have  the  right.  And  I 
intend  to  exercise  it.  It  becomes  my  duty,  however 
painful,  to  tell  you,  as  a  member  of  the  Church,  wherein 
you  have  wronged  the  Church  and  wronged  yom-self." 

He  didn't  raise  his  tone,  and  there  was  in  it  more  of 
sorrow  than  of  indignation.  The  banker  turned  an 
ashen  gray.  ...  A  moment  elapsed  before  he  spoke, 
a  transforming  moment.     He  suddenly  became  ice. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "I  can't  pretend  to  account  for 
these  astounding  views  you  have  acquired — and  I  am 
using  a  mild  term.  Let  me  say  this"  (he  leaned  forward 
a  httle,  across  the  desk) :  "I  demand  that  you  be  specific. 
I  am  a  busy  man,  I  have  little  time  to  waste,  I  have  certain 
matters  before  me  which  must  be  attended  to  to-night.  I 
warn  you  that  I  will  not  hsten  any  longer  to  vague  accusa- 
tions." 

It  was  Hodder's  turn  to  marvel.  Did  Eldon  Parr,  after 
all,  have  no  sense  of  guilt?  Instantaneously,  automatic- 
ally, his  own  anger  rose. 


The    Church  389 

"You  may  be  sure,  Mr.  Parr,  that  I  should  not  be  here 
unless  I  were  prepared  to  be  specific.  And  what  I  am 
going  to  say  to  you  I  have  reserved  for  your  ear  alone,  in 
the  hope  that  you  will  take  it  to  heart  while  it  is  not  yet 
too  late,  and  amend  your  life  accordingly.  .  .  ." 

(The  clergyman  tells  the  banker  of  lives  that  have  been 
ruined  by  his  financial  dishonesties.) 

"I  am  not  talking  about  the  imperfect  code  of  human 
justice  under  which  we  live,  Mr.  Parr,"  he  cried.  "This 
is  not  a  case  in  which  a  court  of  law  may  exonerate  you,  it 
is  between  you  and  your  God.  But  I  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  find  out,  from  unquestioned  sources,  the  truth 
about  the  Consolidated  Tractions  Company^I  shall  not 
go  into  the  details  at  length — they  are  doubtless  familiar 
to  you.  I  know  that  the  legal  genius  of  Mr.  Langmaid, 
one  of  my  vestry,  made  possible  the  organization  of  the 
company,  and  thereby  evaded  the  plain  spirit  of  the  law 
of  the  state.  I  know  that  one  branch  line  was  bought  for 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  capitalized 
for  three  millions,  and  that  most  of  the  others  were 
scandalously  over-capitalized.  I  know  that  while  the 
coming  transaction  was  still  a  secret,  you  and  other 
gentlemen  connected  with  the  matter  bought  up  large 
interests  in  other  lines,  which  you  proceeded  to  lease  to 
yourselves  at  guaranteed  dividends  which  these  lines  do  not 
earn.  I  know  that  the  first  large  dividend  was  paid  out  of 
capital.  And  the  stock  which  you  sold  to  poor  Garvin  was 
so  hopelessly  watered  that  it  never  could  have  been  any- 
thing but  worthless.  If,  in  spite  of  these  facts,  you  do  not 
deem  yourself  responsible  for  the  misery  which  has  been 
caused,  if  your  conscience  is  now  clear,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell 
you  that  there  is  a  higher  bar  of  justice." 

The  intensity  of  the  fire  of  the  denunciation  had,  indeed, 


390  The    Cry   for    Justice 

a  momentary  yet  visible  effect  in  the  banker's  expression. 
Whatever  the  emotions  thus  lashed  to  self-betrayal, 
anger,  hatred, — fear,  perhaps,  Hodder  could  not  detect  a 
trace  of  penitence;  and  he  was  aware,  on  the  part  of  the 
other,  of  a  supreme,  almost  spasmodic  effort  for  Self-con- 
trol. The  constitutional  reluctance  of  Eldon  Parr  to  fight 
openly  could  not  have  been  more  clearly  demonstrated. 

"Because  you  are  a  clergyman,  Mr.  Hodder,"  he  began, 
"because  you  are  the  rector  of  St.  John's,  I  have  allowed 
you  to  say  things  to  me  which  I  would  not  have  permitted 
from  any  other  man.  I  have  tried  to  take  into  account 
your  point  of  view,  which  is  naturally  restricted,  your 
pardonable  ignorance  of  what  business  men,  who  wsh 
to  do  their  duty  by  Church  and  State,  have  to  coptend 
with.  When  you  came  to  this  parish  you  seemed  to  have 
a  sensible,  a  proportional  view  of  things;  you  were  con- 
tent to  confine  yom*  activities  to  your  own  sphere,  con- 
tent not  to  meddle  with  politics  and  business,  which  you 
could,  at  first  hand,  know  nothing  about.  The  modern 
desire  of  clergymen  to  interfere  in  these  matters  has 
ruined  the  usefulness  of  many  of  them.  ' 

"  I  repeat,  I  have  tried  to  be  patient.  I  venture  to  hope, 
still,  that  this  extraordinary  change  in  you  may  not  be 
permanent,  but  merely  the  result  of  a  natural  sympathy 
with  the  weak  and  vmwise  and  unfortunate  who  are 
always  to  be  found  in  a  complex  civilization.  I  can  even 
conceive  how  such  a  discovery  must  have  shocked  you, 
temporarily  aroused  your  indignation,  as  a  clergyman, 
against  the  world  as  it  is — and,  I  may  add,  as  it  has  always 
been.  My  personal  friendship  for  you,  and  my  interest 
in  your  future  welfare  impel  me  to  make  a  final  appeal  to 
you  not  to  ruin  a  career  which  is  full  of  promise.  .  .  ." 

"I  hinted  to  you  awhile  ago  of  a  project  I  have  con- 


The    Church  391 

ceived  and  almost  perfected  of  gifts  on  a  much  larger  scale 
than  I  have  ever  attempted."  The  financier  stared  at  him 
meaningly.  "And  I  had  you  in  mind  as  one  of  the  three 
men  whom  I  should  consult,  whom  I  should  associate  with 
myself  in  the  matter.  We  cannot  change  human  nature, 
but  we  can  better  conditions  by  wise  giving.  I  do  not 
refer  now  to  the  settlement  house,  which  I  am  ready  to 
help  make  and  maintain  as  the  best  in  the  country,  but 
I  have  in  mind  a  system  to  be  carried  out  with  the  consent 
and  aid  of  the  municipal  government,  of  playgrounds, 
baths,  parks,  places  of  recreation,  and  hospitals,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  people,  which  will  put  our  city  in  the  very 
forefront  of  progress.  And  I  believe,  as  a  practical  man, 
I  can  convince  you  that  the  betterment  which  you  and  I 
so  earnestly  desire  can  be  brought  about  in  no  other  way. 
Agitation  can  only  result  in  anarchy  and  misery  for  all." 

Hodder's  wrath,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair,  was  of  the 
sort  that  appears  incredibly  to  add  to  the  physical  stat- 
ure,— the  bewildering  spiritual  wrath  which  is  rare  indeed, 
and  carries  all  before  it. 

"Don't  tempt  me,  Mr.  Parr!"  he  said.  "Now  that  I 
know  the  truth,  I  tell  you  frankly  I  would  face  poverty  and 
persecution  rather  than  consent  to  your  offer.  And  I  warn 
you  once  more  not  to  flatter  yourself  that  existence  ends 
here,  that  you  will  not  be  called  to  answer  for  every  wrong 
act  you  have  committed  in  acctunulating  your  fortune, 
that  what  you  call  business  is  an  affair  of  which  God  takes 
no  account.  What  I  say  may  seem  foolishness  to  you, 
but  I  tell  you,  in  the  words  of  that  Foolishness,  that  it 
will  not  profit  you  to  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  your 
own  soul.  You  remind  me  that  the  Church  in  old  time 
accepted  gifts  from  the  spoils  of  war,  and  I  will  add  of 
rapine  and  murder.    And  the  Church  today,  to  repeat  your 


393  The    Cry   for    Justice 

own  parallel,  grows  rich  with  money  wrongfully  got. 
Legally?  Ah,  yes,  legally,  perhaps.  But  that  will  not 
avail  you.  And  the  kind  of  church  you  speak  of — to 
which  I,  to  my  shame,  once  consented — Our  Lord  repu- 
diates. It  is  none  of  his.  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Parr,  in  his 
Name,  first  to  make  your  peace  with  your  brothers 
before  you  presume  to  lay  another  gift  on  the  altar." 

During  this  withering  condemnation  of  himself  Eldon 
Parr  sat  motionless,  his  face  grown  livid,  an  expression  on 
it  that  continued  to  haunt  Hodder  long  afterwards.  An 
expression,  indeed,  which  made  the  banker  almost  unrec- 
ognizable. 

"Go,"  he  whispered,  his  hand  trembling  visibly  as  he 
pointed  towards  the  door.  "Go — I  have  had  enough  of 
this." 


I 


By  Edwin  Davies  Schoonmaker 

(Contemporary  American  poet) 

N  vain  she  points  her  finger  to  the  sky 

And  sends  her  voice  along  the  famous  street. 

Admonishing  how  the  mortal  hours  fleet 
And  bidding  men  bethink  that  they  must  die. 
Tearing  the  coat  of  Christ  they  jostle  by 

And  ply  their  gambling  at  her  very  feet. 

"Prepare,  prepare,  prepare  thy  God  to  meet!" 
She  loudly  calls.     They  do  not  heed  her.     Why? 

Thou,  stuffed  with  tithes  of  them  that  traflac  here, 
Flesh  of  their  flesh,  and  with  thy  spotted  hand 


The    Church  393 

Buying  and  selling,  fattening  year  by  year, 
How  darest  thou  rebuke  this  venal  band? 
Thou  mocker  of  the  man  of  Galilee, 
Prepare  to  meet  thy  God,  thou  Pharisee. 


%^t  C6urc|)  anti  t|)t  aoiotfetw 

By  Walter  Rauschenbtjsch 
(See  page  346) 

'  I  "HE  stratification  of  society  is  becoming  more  definite 
-'■  in  our  country,  and  the  people  are  becoming  more 
conscious  of  it.  The  industrial  conflicts  make  them 
realize  how  their  interests  diverge  from  those  of  the 
commercial  class.  As  that  consciousness  increases,  it 
becomes  harder  for  the  two  classes  to  meet  in  the  expres- 
sion of  Christian  faith  and  love — in  prayer  meetings,  for 
instance.  When  the  Christian  business  man  is  presented 
as  a  model  Christian,  working  people  are  coming  to  look 
with  suspicion  on  these  samples  of  our  Christianity. 
I  am  not  justifying  that,  but  simply  stating  the  fact. 
They  disapprove  of  the  Christianity  of  the  churches,  not 
because  it  is  too  good,  but  because  it  is  not  good  enough. 
The  working  people  are  now  developing  the  principle  and 
practice  of  solidarity,  which  promises  to  be  one  of  the 
most  potent  ethical  forces  of  the  future,  and  which  is 
essentially  more  Christian  than  the  covetousness  and 
selfishness  which  we  regard  as  the  indispensable  basis  of 
commerce.  If  this  is  a  correct  diagnosis  of  our  condition, 
is  it  strange  that  the  Church  is  unable  to  evangelize  a 
class  alienated  from  it  by  divergent  class  interests  and 
class  morality? 


SOJi-  The    Cry   for    Justice 

'STamttti  aairalti) 

By  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe 
(See  page  298) 

CAPACIOUS  is  the  Church's  belly; 
Whole  nations  it  has  swallowed  down, 
Yet  no  dyspepsia  'neath  its  gown; 
The  Church  alone,  in  jewels  drest, 
Your  "tainted  wealth"  can  quite  digest. 


%^t  Collection 

By  Ernest  Howard  Crosby 
(American  writer  and  social  reformer,  1856-1907) 

T  PASSED  the  plate  in  church. 

■'■   There  was  little  silver,  but  the  crisp  bank-notes  heaped 

themselves  up  high  before  me; 
And  ever  as  the  pile  grew,  the  plate  became  warmer  and 

warmer  imtil  it  burned  my  fingers,  and  a  smell  of 

scorching  flesh  rose  from  it,  and  I  perceived  that 

some  of  the  notes  were  beginning  to  smoulder  and 

curl,  half-browned,  at  the  edges. 
And  then  I  saw  thru  the  smoke  into  the  very  substance  of 

the  money,  and  I  beheld  what  it  really  was; 
I  saw  the  stolen  earnings  of  the  poor,  the  wide  margins  of 

wages  pared  down  to  starvation; 
I  saw  the  underpaid  factory  girl  eking  out  her  living  on  the 

street,   and  the  overworked  child,  and  the  suicide 

of  the  discharged  nainer; 


^ 

►-1 

3 

H 

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^ 

3 

'Si 

c; 

H 

m 

> 

H^ 

s 

ci 

c; 

r 

w 

^ 

r^ 

o 

> 

H 

-/: 

-n 

•z 

B 

R 

r-< 

t?3 

o 

a 

I—" 

O 

•^ 

n 

►^ 

Kl 

The    Chur.ch  395 

I  saw  poisonous  gases  from  great  manufactories  spreading 

disease  and  death;  .  .  . 
I  saw  hideousness  extending  itself  from  coal  mine  and 

foundry  over  forest  and  river  and  field; 
I  saw  money  grabbed  from  fellow  grabbers  and  swindlers, 

and  underneath  them  the  workman  forever  spinning 

it  out  of  his  vitals.  .  .  . 
I  saw  all  this,  and  the  plate  burned  my  fingers  so  that  I 

had  to  hold  it  first  in  one  hand  and  then  in  the  other; 

^.nd  I  was  glad  when  the  parson  in  his  white  robes 

took  the  smoking  pile  from  me  on  the  chancel  steps 

and,  turning  about,  lifted  it  up  and  laid  it  on  the 

altar. 
It  was  an  old-time  altar  indeed,  for  it  bore  a  burnt  offering 

of  flesh  and  blood — a  sweet  savor  unto  the  Moloch 

whom  these  people  worship  with  their  daily  round 

of  human  sacrifices. 
The  shambles  are  ui  the  temple  as  of  yore,  and  the  tables 

of  the  money-changers,  waiting  to  be  overturned. 


By  Emile  de  Lavelaye 
(Belgian  economist,  1822-1892) 

IF  Christianity  were  taught  and  understood  conforma- 
bly to  the  spirit  of  its  Founder,  the  existing  social 
organism  could  not  last  a  day. 


396  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Clement  of  Alexandria 
(Greek  Church;     150-215) 

I  KNOW  that  God  has  given  us  the  use  of  goods, 
but  only  as  far  as  is  necessary;  and  He  has  deter- 
mined that  the  use  be  common.  It  is  absurd  and  dis- 
graceful for  one  to  live  magnificently  and  luxuriously 
when  so  many  are  hungry. 

By  Teetullian 
(Earliest  of  the  Latin  fathers;  155-222) 

All  is  common  with  us  except  women.  Jesus  was  our 
man,  God  and  brother.  He  restored  unto  all  men  what 
cruel  murderers  took  from  them  by  the  sword.  Christians 
have  no  master  and  no  Christian  shall  be  bound  for  bread 
and  raiment.  The  land  is  no  man's  inheritance;  none 
shall  possess  it  as  property. 

By  St.  Cyphian 
(Latin;     200-258) 

No  man  shall  be  received  into  oiu-  commune  who  say- 
eth  that  the  land  may  be  sold.  God's  footstool  is  not 
property. 

By  St.  Basil 
(Gieek  Church;    329-379) 

Which  things,  tell  me,  are  yours?  Whence  have  you 
brought  your  goods  into  life?  You  are  like  one  occupying 
a  place  in  a  theatre,  who  should  prohibit  others  from  enter- 


The    Church  397 

ing,  treating  that  as  his  own  which  was  designed  for  the 
common  use  of  all.  Such  are  the  rich.  Because  they  pre- 
occupy common  goods,  they  take  these  goods  as  their 
own.  If  each  one  would  take  that  which  is  sufficient  for 
his  needs,  leaving  what  is  superfluous  to  those  in  distress, 
no  one  would  be  rich,  no  one  poor.  .  .  .  The  rich  man 
is  a  thief. 

By  St.  Ambbose 
(Latin;     340-397) 

How  far,  O  rich,  do  you  extend  your  senseless  avarice? 
Do  you  intend  to  be  the  sole  inhabitants  of  the  earth? 
Why  do  you  drive  out  the  fellow  sharers  of  nature,  and 
claim  it  all  for  yourselves?  The  earth  was  made  for  all, 
rich  and  poor,  in  common.  Why  do  you  rich  claim  it  as 
your  exclusive  right?  The  soil  was  given  to  the  rich  and 
poor  in  common- — ^wherefore,  oh,  ye  rich,  do  you  unjustly 
claim  it  for  yourselves  alone?  Nature  gave  all  things  in 
common  for  the  use  of  all;  usurpation  created  private 
rights.  Property  hath  no  rights.  The  earth  is  the  Lord's, 
and  we  are  his  offspring.  The  pagans  hold  earth  as  prop- 
erty.    They  do  blaspheme  God. 

By  St.  Jerome 
(Latin;  340-420) 

All  riches  come  from  iniquity,  and  unless  one  has  lost, 
another  cannot  gain.  Hence  that  common  opinion 
seems  to  me  to  be  very  true,  "the  rich  man  is  unjust,  or  the 
heir  an  unjust  one."  Opulence  is  always  the  result  of 
theft,  if  not  committed  by  the  actual  possessor,  then  by  his 
predecessor. 


398  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  St.  John  Chrysostom 
(Greek  Church;  347-407) 

Tell  me,  whence  are  you  rich?  From  whom  have  you 
received?  From  your  grandfather,  you  say;  from 
your  father.  Are  you  able  to  show,  ascending  in  the  order 
of  generation,  that  that  possession  is  just  throughout  the 
whole  series  of  preceding  generations?  Its  beginning  and 
root  grew  necessarily  out  of  injustice.  Why?  Because 
God  did  not  make  this  man  rich  and  that  man  poor  from 
the  beginning.  Nor,  when  He  created  the  world,  did  He 
allot  inuch  treasure  to  one  man,  and  forbid  another  to 
seek  any.  He  gave  the  same  earth  to  be  cultivated  by  all. 
Since,  therefore.  His  bounty  is  common,  how  comes  it  that 
you  have  so  many  fields,  and  your  neighbor  not  even  a  clod 
of  earth?  .  .  .  The  idea  we  should  have  of  the  rich  and 
covetous — they  are  truly  as  robbers,  who,  standing  in  the 
public  highway,  despoil  the  passers. 

By  St.  Augustine 
(Latin;     354^30) 

The  superfluities  of  the  rich  are  the  necessaries  of  the 
poor.  They  who  possess  superfluities,  possess  the  goods  of 
others. 

By  St.  Gregory  the  Great 

(Latin;   540-604) 

They  must  be  admonished  who  do  not  seek  another's 
goods,  yet  do  not  give  of  their  own,  that  they  may  know 
that  the  earth  from  which  they  have  received  is  common  to 
all  men,  and  therefore  its  products  are  given  in  common  to 
all.    They,  therefore,  wrongly  think  they  are  innocent  who 


The    Church  399 

claim  for  themselves  the  common  gift  of  God.  When  they 
do  not  give  what  they  have  received,  they  assist  in  the 
death  of  neighbors,  because  daily  almost  as  many  of  the 
poor  perish  as  have  been  deprived  of  means  which  the 
rich  have  kept  to  themselves.  When  we  give  necessaries 
to  the  needy  we  do  not  bestow  upon  them  our  goods;  we 
return  to'them  their  own;  we  pay  a  debt  of  justice  rather 
than  fulfil  a  work  of  mercy. 


%^t  Sinnmns  ot  CSt(0tianitp* 

(From  "The  Call  of  the  Carpenter") 

By  Bouck  White 

(See  page  353) 

I  "HE  annexing  process  was  started  by  a  Roman  citizen 
■*•  named  Saul.  Formerly  a  Jew,  he  deserted  his  nation- 
ality and  with  it  his  former  name,  and  called  himself  there- 
after Paul.  Paul  was  undeniably  sincere.  He  believed 
that  in  reinterpreting  the  Christian  faith  so  as  to  make  it 
acceptable  to  the  Romans  he  was  doing  that  faith  a  ser- 
vice. His  make-up  was  imperial  rather  than  democratic. 
Both  by  birth  and  training  he  was  unfitted  to  enter  into 
the  working-class  consciousness  of  Galileans.  He  was  in 
culture  a  Hellenist,  in  religion  a  Pharisee,  in  citizenship  a 
Roman.  From  the  first  strain,  Hellenism,  he  received  a 
bias  in  the  direction  of  philosophy  rather  than  economics; 
from  the  second,  his  Pharisaism,  he  received  a  bias  toward 
aloofness,  otherworldliness;  and  from  the  third,  his  Ro- 
manism, he  received  a  bias  toward  political  acquiescence 
and  the  preservation  of  the  status  quo.  .  .  . 


*  By  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


JfiO  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Paul  planned  to  make  Christianity  the  religion  of  the 
Roman  Empire.  It  needed  a  rehgion  badly.  The  catalogue 
of  its  vices,  in  the  forepart  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans, 
is  proof.  Paul  the  Roman  citizen  saw  nothing  but  excel- 
lence in  Rome's  world-wide  empire.  Only,  it  must  be 
redeemed  from  its  laxity  of  morals.  Therefore  he  would 
bring  to  it  the  Christ  as  its  cleanser  and  thereby  its  per- 
petuator.  It  was  the  test  of  loyal  citizenship  among  the 
Romans  to  seek  out  in  every  part  of  the  world  that  which 
was  most  rare  and  valued,  and  bring  it  back  to  Rome  as  a 
gift.  Thus  her  sons  went  forth  and  returned  laden  with 
richest  trophies  to  lay  at  her  feet.  They  brought  to  her 
pearls  fron  India,  gold  chariots  from  Babylon,  elephants 
from  interior  Africa,  high-breasted  virgins  from  the 
Greek  isles,  Phidian  marbles  from  Athens.  Paul  also 
would  be  a  bringer  of  gifts  to  the  Rome  that  had  honored 
him  and  his  fathers  with  the  high  honor  of  citizenship. 
And  the  gift  he  would  bring  and  lay  at  her  feet  would  be 
the  richest  of  them  all — a  religion.  .  .  . 

Paul  was  a  stockholder  in  Rome's  world  corporation. 
And  that  stock  by  slow  degrees  had  blinded  him  to  the 
injustice  of  a  social  system  in  whose  dividends  he  himself 
shared.  This  explains  in  large  part  why  he  accepted  the 
political  status  quo,  and  preached  its  acceptance  by 
others.  Students  of  ethics  have  difficulty  in  reconcihng 
Aristotle's  defence  of  human  servitude,  "slavery  is  a  law 
of  nature  which  is  advantageous  and  just,"  with  his 
insight  and  logic  in  other  matters.  The  difficulty  resolves 
itself  when  it  is  recalled  that  Aristotle  possessed  thirteen 
slaves,  and  therefore  had  exactly  thirteen  arguments  for 
the  righteousness  of  slavery.  Seneca,  gifted  in  other 
things  with  fine  powers  of  moral  philosophy,  saw  no 
monstrousness  in  Nero  that  he  should  rebuke — Seneca 


The    Church  401 

was  a  favorite  with  Nero,  and  was  using  that  favoritism 
to  amass  an  enormous  fortune.  Paul  was  too  highly- 
educated — using  the  term  in  its  academic  sense — to  be  at 
one  with  the  unbookish  Galileans,  and  he  was  personally 
too  much  the  gainer  from  Rome's  empire  of  privilege  to 
share  the  insurrectionary  spirit  of  the  Son  of  Mary.  .  .  . 

Paul  was  under  the  spell  of  Rome's  material  greatness. 
His  heart  was  secretly  enticed  by  her  triumphal  arches, 
her  literature,  her  palaces  on  the  Palatine,  her  baths, 
porticos  of  philosophy,  gymnasia,  schools  of  rhetoric,  her 
athletic  games  in  the  arena.  He  thought  of  her  history, 
her  jurisprudence,  her  military  might,  the  starry  names 
in  her  roll  of  glory,  her  sweep  of  empire  from  the  Thames 
to  the  Tigris,  and  from  the  Rhine  to  the  deserts  of  Africa; 
and  when,  to  this  summary,  came  the  pleasant  reflection 
that  he  was  a  part  of  this  world  corporation,  one  of  the 
privileged  few  to  share  in  its  profits,  it  was  not  hard  for 
him  to  find  reasons  to  justify  his  desertion  of  that  poverty- 
stricken  and  fanatically  democratic  race  of  Israel  off  there 
in  imimportant  Palestine. 

A  true  Roman,  Paul  preaches  to  the  proletariat  the 
duty  of  political  passivity.  To  the  Carpenter,  with  his 
splendid  worldliness,  the  premier  qualification  for  charac- 
ter was  self-respect,  and  the  alertness  and  mastery  of 
envirormaent  which  go  with  self-respect.  But  to  Paul  the 
primate  virtue  is  submissiveness — "the  powers  that  be!" 
He  sought  to  cure  the  seditiousness  of  the  workiag  class  by 
drawing  off  their  gaze  to  a  crown  of  righteousness  reserved 
in  heaven  for  them — a  gaseous  felicity  beyond  the' stars. 
Israel,  holding  fast  to  the  enrichment  of  the  present  fife, 
had  kept  its  religion  from  getting  off  into  fog  lands,  by 
seeking  "a  city  that  hath  foundations."  But  Paul  sought 
to  hush  all  these  "worldly"  aims;   he  wooed  the  toiling 

26 


Jfi2  The    Cry   for    Justice 

masses  to  desire  "a  building  of  God,  a  house  not  made  with 
hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens."  He  was  a  true  yoke-fellow 
of  Pylades,  the  Roman  play-actor,  who,  wishing  to  justify 
his  usefulness  to  the  master  class,  said  to  Augustus  that 
"  it  was  for  the  emperor's  advantage  that  the  people  should 
have  their  attention  fixed  on  the  playhouse  rather  than 
on  politics." 


iSreCace  to  "S^ajor  ^Batbata" 

By  G.  Bernard  Shaw 
(See  pages  193,  212,  263) 

CHURCHES  are  suffered  to  exist  only  on  condition 
that  they  preach  submission  to  the  State  as  at 
present  capitalistically  organized.  The  Church  of  Eng- 
land itself  is  compelled  to  add  to  the  thirty-six  articles  in 
which  it  formulates  its  religious  tenets,  three  more  in 
which  it  apologetically  protests  that  the  moment  any  of 
these  articles  comes  in  conflict  with  the  State  it  is  to  be 
entirely  renounced,  abjiu-ed,  Adolated,  abrogated  and 
abhorred,  the  policeman  being  a  much  more  important 
person  than  any  of  the  Persons  of  the  Trinity.  And  this 
is  why  no  tolerated  Church  nor  Salvation  Army  can  ever 
win  the  entire  confidence  of  the  poor.  It  must  be  on  the 
side  of  the  police  and  the  military,  no  matter  what  it 
believes  or  disbelieves;  and  as  the  police  and  the  military 
are  the  instruments  by  which  the  rich  rob  and  oppress  the 
poor  (on  legal  and  moral  principles  made  for  the  purpose), 
it  is  not  possible  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  poor  and  of  the 
police  at  the  same  time.  Indeed  the  religious  bodies,  as 
the  almoners  of  the  rich,  become  a  sort  of  auxihary  police. 


The    Church    ' jOS_ 

taking  off  the  insurrectionary  edge  of  poverty  with  coals 
and  blankets,  bread  and  treacle,  and  soothing  and  cheering 
the  victims  with  hopes  of  immense  and  inexpensive  happi- 
ness in  another  world,  when  the  process  of  working  them 
to  premature  death  in  the  service  of  the  rich  is  complete 
in  this. 


#rince  l^agin 

By  Upton  Sinclair 

(Prince  Hagen,  ruler  of  the  Nibelungs,  a  race  of  gold-hoarding 
gnomes,  comes  up  to  visit  the  land  of  the  eai'th-men,  and  study 
Christian  civilization.  He  finds  a  nmnber  of  ideas  worth  taking 
back  to  his  underground  home) 

"PRINCE  HAGEN  paused  for  a  moment  and  puffed  in 
-'-  silence;  then  suddenly  he  remarked:  "Do  you  know 
that  it  is  a  very  wonderful  idea — that  immortality?  Did 
you  ever  think  about  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "a  little." 

"I  tell  you,  the  man  who  got  that  up  was  a  world- 
genius.  When  I  saw  how  it  worked,  it  was  something 
almost  too  much  for  me  to  believe;  and  still  I  find  myself 
wondering  if  it  can  last.  For  you  know  if  you  can  once 
get  a  man  believing  in  immortality,  there  is  no  more  left 
for  you  to  desire;  you  can  take  everything  in  the  world  he 
ovms — ^you  can  skin  him  alive  if  it  pleases  you— ;-and  he 
will  bear  it  all  with  perfect  good  humor.  I  tell  you  what, 
I  lie  awake  at  night  and  dream  about  the  chances  of 
getting  the  Nibelungs  to  believe  in  inamortahty;  I  don't 
think  I  can  manage  it,  but  it  is  a  stake  worth  playing  for. 
I  say  the  phrases  over  to  myself — you  know  them  all — 
'It  is  better  to  give  than  to  receive' — 'Lay  not  up  for  your- 


IfiJj.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

self  treasures  on  earth' — 'Take  no  heed,  saying  what  shall 
ye  eat!'  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  fancy  the  Nibelungs  will 
prove  pretty  tough  at  reforming,  but  it  is  worth  any 
amount  of  labor.  Suppose  I  could  ever  get  them  to  the 
self-renoimcing  point!  Just  fancy  the  self-renunciation  of 
a  man  with  a  seventy-mile  tunnel  full  of  gold!" 

Prince  Hagen's  eyes  danced;  his  face  was  a  study.  I 
watched  him  wonderingly.  "Why  do  you  go  to  all  that 
bother?"  I  demanded,  suddenly.  "  If  you  want  the  gold, 
why  don't  you  simply  kill  the  Nibelungs  and  take  it?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  he  rephed;  "I  might  easily 
manage  it  all  with  a  single  revolver.  But  why  should  I 
kill  the  geese  that  lay  me  golden  eggs?  I  want  not  only 
the  gold  they  have,  but  the  gold  that  they  will  dig  through 
the  centuries  that  are  to  come;  for  I  know  that  the 
resources  of  Nibelheim,  if  they  could  only  be  properly 
developed,  would  be  simply  infinite.  So  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  civilize  the  people  and  develop  their  souls." 

"Explain  to  me  just  how  you  expect  to  get  their  gold," 
I  said. 

"Just  as  the  capitahst  is  getting  it  in  New  York," 
was  the  response.  "At  present  the  Nibelimgs  hide  their 
wealth;  I  mean  to  broaden  their  minds,  and  establish 
a  system  of  credit.  I  mean  to  teach  them  ideals  of  use- 
fulness and  service,  to  establish  the  arts  and  sciences,  to 
introduce  machinery  and  all  the  modern  improvements 
that  tend  to  increase  the  centralization  of  power;  I  shall 
be  master — just  as  I  am  here — because  I  am  the  strongest, 
and  because  I  am  not  a  dupe." 

"I  see,"  I  said;  "but  all  this  will  take  a  long  time." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  know;  it  is  the  whole  course  of 
history  to  be  lived  over  again.  But  there  will  be  no 
mistakes  and  no  groping  in  this  case,  for  I  know  the  way, 


The    Church  Ii-OB 

and  I  am  king.  It  will  be  a  sort  of  benevolent  despotism — 
the  ideal  form  of  government,  as  I  believe." 

"And  you  are  sure  there  is  no  chance  of  yoiK  plans 
failing?" 

"Failing!"  he  laughed.  "You  should  have  seen  how 
they  have  worked  so  far." 

"You  have  begun  applying  them?" 

"I  have  been  down  to  Nibelheim  twice  since  the  death 
of  dear  grandpa,"  said  the  prince.  "The  first  time,  as  you 
imagine,  there  was  tremendous  excitement,  for  all  Nibel- 
heim knew  what  a  bad  person  I  had  been,  and  stood  in 
terror  of  my  return.  I  got  them  all  together  and  told  them 
the  truth — that  I  had  become  wise  and  virtuous,  that  I 
meant  to  respect  every  man's  property,  and  that  I  meant 
to  consecrate  my  whole  endeavor  to  the  developing  of  the 
resources  of  my  native  land.  And  then  you  should  have 
witnessed  the  scene!  They  went  half  wild  with  rejoicing; 
they  fell  down  on  their  knees  and  thanked  me  with  tears 
in  their  eyes :  I  played  the  ipater.  'patriae  in  a  fashion  to 
take  away  yom-  breath.  And  afterwards  I  went  on  to 
explain  to  them  that  I  had  discovered  very  many  wonder- 
ful things  up  on  the  earth;  that  I  was  going  to  make  a  law 
forbidding  any  of  them  to  go  there,  because  it  was  so 
dangerous,  but  that  I  myself  was  going  to  brave  all  the 
perils  for  their  sakes.  I  told  them  about  a  wonderful 
animal  that  was  called  a  steam-drill,  and  that  ate  fire, 
and  dug  out  gold  with  swiftness  beyond  anything  they 
could  imagine.  I  said  that  I  was  going  to  empty  all  my 
royal  treasure  caves,  and  take  my  fortune  and  some  of 
theirs  to  the  earth  to  buy  a  few  thousand  of  these  wonder- 
ful creatures;  and  I  promised  them  that  I  would  give 
them  to  the  Nibelungs  to  use,  and  they  might  have  twice 
as  much  gold  as  they  would  have  dug  with  their  hands, 


If.06  The    Cry   for    Justice 

provided  they  would  give  me  the  balance.  Of  course  they 
agreed  to  it  with  shouts  of  dehght,  and  the  contracts  were 
signed  then  and  there.  They  helped  me  get  out  all  my 
gold,  and  I  took  them  down  the  steam-drills,  and  showed 
them  how  to  manage  them;  so  before  very  long  I  expect  to 
have  quite  a  snug  little  income." 


By  Niccolo  Machiavelli 

(Italian  courtier,   author  of  a  famous  treatise  on  statecraft; 
1469-1527) 

A  PRINCE  has  to  have  particular  care  that,  to  see  and 
to  hear  him,  he  appears  all  goodness,  integrity, 
humanity  and  religion,  which  last  he  ought  to  pretend  to 
more  than  ordinarily.  For  everybody  sees,  but  few 
understand;  everybody  sees  how  you  appear,  but  few 
know  what  in  reality  you  are,  and  those  few  dare  not 
oppose  the  opinion  of  the  multitude,  who  have  the  majesty 
of  their  prince  to  defend  them. 


Cfiildtm  of  i^t  SDtati  (Enti* 

By  Patrick  MacGill 
(See  pages  32,  47,  122) 

NEARLY  every  second  year  the  potatoes  went  bad; 
then  we  were  always  hungry,  although  Farley 
McKeown,  a  rich  merchant  in  the  neighboring  village,  let 
my  father  have  a  great  many  bags  of  Indian  meal  on 

*  By  permission  of  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 


The    Church  407 

credit.  A  bag  contained  sixteen  stone  of  meal  and  cost  a 
shilling  a  stone.  On  the  bag  of  meal  Farley  McKeown 
charged  sixpence  a  month  interest;  and  fourpence  a 
month  on  a  sack  of  flour  which  cost  twelve  shillings.  All 
the  people  round  about  were  very  honest,  and  paid  up 
their  debts  when  they  were  able.  Usually  when  the  young 
went  off  to  Scotland  or  England  they  sent  home  money  to 
their  fathers  and  mothers,  and  with  this  money  the  parents 
paid  for  the  meal  to  Farley  McKeown.  "What  doesn't 
go  to  the  landlord  goes  to  Farley  McKeown,"  was  a  Glen- 
moman  saying. 

The  merchant  was  a  great  friend  of  the  parish  priest, 
who  always  told  the  people  if  they  did  not  pay  their  debts 
they  would  bum  for  ever  and  ever  in  hell.  "The  fires  of 
eternity  will  make  you  sorry  for  the  debts  that  you  did  not 
pay,"  said  the  priest.  "What  is  eternity?"  he  would  ask 
in  a  solemn  voice  from  the  altar  steps.  "  If  a  man  tried  to 
count  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore  and  took  a  million  years 
to  count  every  single  grain,  how  long  would  it  take  him 
to  co\mt  them  all?  A  long  time,  you'll  say.  But  that 
time  is  nothing  to  eternity.  Just  think  of  it!  Burning 
in  hell  while  a  man,  taking  a  million  years  to  count  a  grain 
of  sand,  counts  all  the  sand  on  the  sea-shore.  And  this 
because  you  did  not  pay  Farley  McKeown  his  lawful  debts, 
his  lawful  debts  within  the  letter  of  the  law."  That  con- 
cluding phrase,  "within  the  letter  of  the  law, "  struck  terror 
into  all  who  listened,  and  no  one,  maybe  not  even  the 
priest  himself,  knew  what  it  meant. 


408  The    Cry   for    Justice 

2lncantation0 

By  Max  Eastman 

(Editor  of  "The  Masses,"  born  1883) 

i 

T   REMEMBER  a  vesper  service  at  Ravello  in  Italy. 

■*■  I  remember  that  the  exquisite  and  pathetically  resplen- 
dent little  chapel  was  filled  with  ragged  and  dirty- 
smelling  and  sweet,  sad-eyed  mothers.  Some  carried 
in  their  arms  their  babies,  some  carried  only  a  memory 
in  their  haggard  eyes.  They  were  all  poor.  They  were 
all  sad  in  that  place.  They  were  mothers.  Mothers 
wrinkle-eyed,  stooped,  worn  old,  but  yet  gentle — 0,  so 
gentle  and  eager  to  believe  that  it  would  all  be  made  up 
to  them  and  their  beloved  in  Heaven!  I  see  their  bodies 
swajdng  to  the  chant  of  meaningless  long  syllables  of 
Latin  magic,  I  see  them  worked  upon  by  those  dark 
agencies  of  candle,  and  minor  chord,  and  incense,  and  the 
unknown  tongue,  and  I  see  that  this  little  dirt-colored 
coin  clutched  so  tight  in  their  five  fingers  is  going  to  be 
given  up,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  haste,  ere  the  chmax 
of  these  incantations  is  past.  Poor,  anguished  dupes  of 
the  hope  of  Heaven,  poor  mothers,  pinching  your  own 
children's  bellies  to  fatten  the  wallets  of  those  fat  priests! 


The    Church  409 

diit  fealbatow 

By  Clement  Wood 
(American  poet,  born  1888) 

CALVATORE'S  dead— a  gap 

^  Where  he  worked  in  the  ditch-edge,  shovelUng  mud; 

Slanting  brow;  a  head  mayhap 

Rather  small,  like  a  bullet;  hot  southern  blood; 
Surly  now,  now  riotous 

With  the  flow  of  his  joy;  and  his  hovel  bare. 
As  his  whole  life  is  to  us — 

A  stone  in  his  belly  the  whole  of  his  share. 

Body  starved,  but  the  soul  secure, 

Masses  to  save  it  from  Purgatory, 
And  to  dwell  with  the  Son  and  the  Virgin  pure — 
Lucky  Salvatore! 

Salvatore's  glad,  for  see 

On  the  hearse  and  the  coffin,  purple  and  black, 
Tassels,  ribbons,  broidery 

Fit  for  the  Priest's  or  the  Pope's  own  back; 
Flowers  costly,  waxen,  gay, 

And  the  mates  from  the  ditch-edge,  pair  after  pair; 
Dirging  band,  and  the  Priest  to  pray, 

And  the  soul  of  the  dead  one  pleasuring  there. 

Body  starved,  and  the  mind  as  well. 

Peace — let  him  rot  in  his  costly  glory, 
Cheated  no  more  with  a  Heaven  or  Hell — 
Exit  Salvatore. 


410  The    Cry   for    Justice 

From  Micah 

HEAR  this,  I  pray  you,  ye  heads  of  the  house  of  Jacob, 
and  rulers  of  the  house  of  Israel,  that  abhor  judg- 
ment, and  pervert  all  equity.  They  build  up  Zion  with 
blood,  and  Jerusalem  with  iniquity.  The  heads  thereof 
judge  for  reward,  and  the  priests  thereof  teach  for  hire, 
and  the  prophets  divine  for  money.  .  .  .  Therefore 
shall  Zion  for  your  sake  be  plowed  as  a  field,  and  Jerusa- 
lem shall  become  heaps,  and  the  mountain  of  the  house  as 
the  high  places  of  a  forest. 


'W^t  feamt 

By  Antonio  Fogazzaeo 

(Italian  poet  and  novelist,  1842-1911.  A  devout  Catholic,  he 
endeavored  to  reform  the  Church  from  within.  The  present  novel 
created  a  tremendous  sensation  in  Italy,  and  was  placed  upon  the 
"Index."    In  this  scene  "the  Saint"  pleads  with  the  Pope) 

'  '\  /f  AY  I  continue.  Your  Holiness?" 

iVi  xhe  Pope,  who  while  Benedetto  had  been 
speaking  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  now  bowed  his 
head  slightly,  in  answer. 

"The  third  evil  spirit  which  is  corrupting  the  Church 
does  not  disguise  itself  as  an  angel  of  light,  for  it  well  knows 
it  cannot  deceive;  it  is  satisfied  with  the  garb  of  common, 
human  honesty.  This  is  the  spirit  of  avarice.  The  Vicar 
of  Christ  dwells  in  this  royal  palace  as  he  dwelt  in  his 
episcopal  palace,  with  the  pure  heart  of  poverty.  Many 
venerable  pastors  dwell  in  the  Church  with  the  same  heart, 
but  the  spirit  of  poverty  is  not  preached  sufficiently,  not 
preached  as  Christ  preached  it.     The  lips  of  Christ's  min- 


The    Church  Ul 

isters  are  too  often  over-complaisant  to  those  who  seek 
riches.  There  are  those  among  them  who  bow  the  head 
respectfully  before  the  man  who  has  much,  simply  because 
he  has  much ;  there  are  those  who  let  their  tongues  flatter 
the  greedy,  and  too  many  preachers  of  the  word  and  of  the 
example  of  Christ  deem  it  just  for  them  to  revel  in  the 
pomp  and  honors  attending  on  riches,  to  cleave  with 
their  souls  to  the  luxury  riches  bring.  Father,  exhort  the 
clergy  to  show  those  greedy  for  gain,  be  they  rich  or  poor, 
more  of  that  charity  which  admonishes,  which  threatens, 
which  rebukes.     Holy  Father! " 

Benedetto  ceased  speaking.  There  was  an  expression 
of  fervent  appeal  in  the  gaze  fixed  upon  the  Pope. 

"Well?"   the  Pontiff  murmured. 

Benedetto  spread  wide  his  arms,  and  continued: 

"The  Spirit  urges  me  to  say  more.  It  is  not  the  work 
of  a  day,  but  let  us  prepare  for  the  day — not  leaving  this 
task  to  the  enemies  of  God  and  of  the  Church — ^let  us 
prepare  for  the  day  on  which  the  priests  of  Christ  shall  set 
the  example  of  true  poverty;  when  it  shall  be  their  duty 
to  live  in  poverty,  as  it  is  their  duty  to  live  in  chastity;  and 
let  the  words  of  Christ  to  the  Seventy-two  serve  them  as  a 
guide  in  this.  Then  the  Lord  will  surround  the  least  of 
them  with  such  honors,  with  such  reverence  as  does  not 
to-day  exist  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  for  the  princes  of 
the  Church.  They  will  be  few  in  number,  but  they  will  be 
the  light  of  the  world.  Holy  Father,  are  they  that  to-day? 
Some  among  them  are,  but  the  majority  shed  neither  light 
nor  darkness." 

At  this  point  the  Pointiff  for  the  first  time  bowed  his 
bead  in  sorrowful  acquiescence. 


4-12  The    Cry   for    Justice 

%lt  /Rtto  Eonte 

By  Robert  Buchanan 
(See  page  367) 

A  THOUSAND  starve,  a  few  are  fed, 
■**■  Legions  of  robbers  rack  the  poor, 
The  rich  man  steals  the  widow's  bread. 

And  Lazarus  dies  at  Dives'  door; 
The  Lawyer  and  the  Priest  adjust 
The  claims  of  Luxury  and  Lust 
To  seize  the  earth  and  hold  the  soil. 

To  store  the  grain  they  never  reap ; 
Under  their  heels  the  white  slaves  toil, 

While  children  wail  and  women  weep! — 
The  gods  are  dead,  but  in  their  name 
Humanity  is  sold  to  shame. 
While  (then  as  now!)  the  tinsel'd  Priest 
Sitteth  with  robbers  at  the  feast. 
Blesses  the  laden  blood-stain'd  board. 
Weaves  garlands  round  the  butcher's  sword, 
And  poureth  freely  (now  as  then) 
The  sacramental  blood  of  Men! 


%^t  ^tit^i  ana  i^t  2DrtiI 

By  Feodor  Dostoyevsky 

(The  Russian  realist,  1821-1881,  wrote  this  little  story  upon  the 
wall  of  his  Silberian  prison) 

'  'T-JELLO,  you  Httle  fat  father!"  the  devil  said  to  the 

■*■    -^  priest.     "What  made  you  lie  so  to  those  poor, 

misled  people?     What  tortures  of  hell  did  you  depict? 

Don't  you  know  they  are  already  suffering  the  tortures  of 


The    Church  413 

hell  in  their  earthly  lives?  Don't  you  know  that  you  and 
the  authorities  of  the  State  are  my  representatives  on 
earth?  It  is  you  that  make  them  suffer  the  pains  of  hell 
with  which  you  threaten  them.  Don't  you  know  this? 
Well,  then,  come  with  me!" 

The  devil  grabbed  the  priest  by  the  collar,  lifted  him 
high  in  the  air,  and  carried  him  to  a  factory,  to  an  iron 
foimdry.  He  saw  the  workmen  there  running  and  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  toiling  in  the  scorching  heat.  Very 
soon  the  thick,  heavy  air  and  the  heat  are  too  much  for 
the  priest.  With  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  pleads  with  the 
devil:   "Let  me  go!  Let  me  leave  this  hell!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I  must  show  you  many  more 
places."  The  devil  gets  hold  of  him  again  and  drags  him 
off  to  a  farm.  There  he  sees  workmen  threshing  the  grain. 
The  dust  and  heat  are  insufferable.  The  overseer  carries 
a  knout,  and  unmercifully  beats  anyone  who  falls  to  the 
ground  overcome  by  hard  toil  or  hunger. 

Next  the  priest  is  taken  to  the  huts  where  these  same 
workers  live  with  their  families — dirty,  cold,  smoky,  ill- 
smelling  holes.  The  devil  grins.  He  points  out  the 
poverty  and  hardships  which  are  at  home  here. 

"Well,  isn't  this  enough?"  he  asks.  And  it  seems  as  if 
even  he,  the  devil,  pities  the  people.  The  pious  servant  of 
God  can  hardly  bear  it.  With  uplifted  hands  he  begs: 
"Let  me  go  away  from  here.  Yes,  yes!  This  is  hell  on 
earth!" 

"Well,  then,  you  see.  And  you  still  promise  them 
another  hell.  You  torment  them,  torture  them  to  death 
mentally  when  they  are  already  all  but  dead  physically. 
Come  on!  I  will  show  you  one  more  hell — one  more,  the 
very  worst." 

He  took  him  to  a  prison  and  showed  him  a  dungeon. 


4-/4  The    Cry   for    Justice 

with  its  foul  air  and  the  many  human  forms,  robbed  of  all 
health  and  energy,  Ijdng  on  the  floor,  covered  with  vermin 
that  were  devouring  their  poor,  naked,  emaciated  bodies. 

"Take  off  your  silken  clothes,"  said  the  devil  to  the 
priest,  "put  on  your  ankles  heavy  chains  such  as  these 
poor  unfortunates  wear;  lie  down  on  the  cold  and  filthy 
floor — and  then  talk  to  them  about  a  hell  that  still  awaits 
them!" 

"No,  no!"  answered  the  priest,  "I  cannot  think  of 
anything  more  dreadful  than  this.  I  entreat  you.  let  me 
go  away  from  here!" 

"Yes,  this  is  hell.  There  can  be  no  worse  hell  than 
this.  Did  you  not  know  it?  Did  you  not  know  that 
these  men  and  women  whom  you  are  frightening  with  the 
picture  of  a  hell  hereafter — did  you  not  know  that  they  are 
in  hell  right  here,  before  they  die?" 


fflMork  accortimff  to  tfii  Bilile 

(A  pamphlet  written   by  T.  M.  Bondareff,  a  Siberian  peasant  and 
ex-serf,  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven) 

''  I  'HEY  often  arrest  thieves  in  the  world;  but  these  cul- 
-^  prits  are  rather  rogues  than  thieves.  I  have  laid 
hands  on  the  real  thief,  who  has  robbed  God  and  the 
church.  He  has  stolen  the  primal  commandment  which 
belongs  to  us  who  till  the  fields.  I  will  point  him  out.  It 
is  he  who  does  not  produce  his  bread  with  his  own  hands, 
but  eats  the  fruit  of  others'  toil.  Seize  him  and  lead  him 
away  to  judgment.  All  crimes  such  as  robberies,  murders, 
frauds  and  the  like  arise  from  the  fact  that  this  command- 
ment is  hidden  from  man.  The  rich  do  all  they  can  to 
avoid  working  with  their  hands,  and  the  poor  to  rid  them- 


The    Church  A15 

selves  of  the  necessity.  The  poor  man  says,  "There  are 
people  who  can  live  on  others'  labor;  why  should  not  I?" 
and  he  kills,  steals  and  cheats  in  consequence.  Behold 
now  what  harm  can  be  done  by  white  hands,  more  than 
all  that  good  grimy  hands  can  repair  upon  the  earth! 
You  spread  out  before  the  laborer  the  idleness  of  your  life, 
and  thus  take  away  the  force  from  his  hands.  Your  way  of 
living  is  for  us  the  most  cruel  of  offences,  and  a  shame 
withal.  You  are  a  hundred-fold  more  wise  and  learned  than 
I  am,  and  for  that  reason  you  take  my  bread.  But 
because  you  are  wise  you  ought  rather  to  have  pity  on  me 
who  am  weak.  It  is  said,  "Love  thy  neighbor  as  thy- 
self. ' '  I  am  your  neighbor,  and  you  are  mine.  Why  are  we 
coarse  and  untaught?  Because  we  produce  our  own  bread, 
and  yours  too!  Have  we  any  time  to  study  and  educate 
oxurselves?  You  have  stolen  oiu-  brains  as  weU  as  our 
bread  by  trickery  and  violence. 

f-  How  blind  thou  art,  0  wise  man;  thou  that  readest  the 
scriptures,  and  seest.not  the  way  in  which  thou  mightest 
free  thyself,  and  the  flock  committed  to  thee,  from  the 
burden  of  sin!  Thy  blindness  is  like  unto  that  of  Balaam, 
who,  astride  his  ass,  saw  not  the  angel  of  God  armed  with  a 
sword  of  fire  standing  in  the  way  before  him.  Thou  art 
Balaam,  I  am  the  ass,  and  thou  hast  ridden  upon  my  back 
from  childhood! 


^1-16  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Leo  Tolstoy 

(In  this  novel  the  greatest  of  modern  religious  teachers  has 
presented  his  indictment  of  the  government  and  church  of  his 
country.  The  hero  is  a  Russian  prince  who  in  early  youth  seduces 
a  peasant  girl,  and  in  'after  life  meets  her,  a  prostitute  on  trial  for 
murder.  He  follows  her  to  Siberia,  in  an  effort  to  reclaim  her. 
Near  the  end  of  his  story  Tolstoi  introduces  this  scene.  The  Eng- 
lishman may  be  said  to  represent  modern  science,  which  asks  ques- 
tions and  accumulates  futile  statistics;  while  the  old  man  voices  the 
peculiar  Christian  Anarchism  of  the  author,  who  at  the  age  of 
eighty-two  left  his  home  and  wandered  out  into  the  steppes  to  die) 

TN  one  of  the  exiles'  wards,  Nehludof  [the  prince] 
■^  recognized  the  strange  old  man  he  had  seen  crossing 
the  ferry  that  morning.  This  tattered  and  wrinkled  old 
man  was  sitting  on  the  floor  by  the  beds,  barefooted, 
wearing  only  a  dirty  cinder-colored  shirt,  torn  on  one 
shoulder,  and  similar  trousers.  He  looked  severely  and 
inquiringly  at  the  new-comers.  His  emaciated  body, 
visible  through  the  holes  in  his  dirty  shirt,  looked  misera- 
bly weak,  but  in  his  face  was  more  concentrated  serious- 
ness and  animation  than  even  when  Nehludof  saw  him 
crossing  the  ferry.  As  in  all  the  other  wards,  so  here  also 
the  prisoners  jumped  up  and  stood  erect  when  the  official 
entered;  but  the  old  man  remained  sitting.  His  eyes 
glittered  and  his  brow  frowned  wrathfully. 

"Get  up!"  the  inspector  called  out  to  him. 

The  old  man  did  not  rise,  but  only  smiled  contemptu- 
ously. 

"Thy  servants  are  standing  before  thee,  I  am  not  thy 
servant.  Thou  bearest  the  seal.  .  .  ."  said  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  the  inspector's  forehead. 


The    Church  417 

"Wha — a — t?"  said  the  inspector  threateningly,  and 
made  a  step  towards  him. 

"I  know  this  man,"  said  Nehludof.  "What  is  he 
imprisoned  for?" 

"  The  police  have  sent  him  here  because  he  has  no  pass- 
port. We  ask  them  not  to  send  such,  but  they  will  do  it," 
said  the  inspector,  casting  an  angry  side  glance  at  the  old 
man. 

"And  so  it  seems  thou,  too,  art  one  of  Antichrist's 
army?"  said  the  old  man  to  Nehludof. 

"No,  I  am  a  visitor,"  said  Nehludof. 

"What,  hast  thou  come  to  see  how  Antichrist  tortures 
men?  Here,  see.  He  has  locked  them  up  in  a  cage,  a 
whole  army  of  them.  Men  should  eat  bread  in  the  sweat 
of  their  brow.  But  He  has  locked  them  up  with  no  work 
to  do,  and  feeds  them  like  swine,  so  that  they  should  turn 
into  beasts." 

"What  is  he  saying?"   asked  the  Englishman. 

Nehludof  told  him  the  old  man  was  blaming  the  in- 
spector for  keeping  men  imprisoned. 

"Ask  him  how  he  thinks  one  should  treat  those  who  do 
not  keep  the  laws,"  said  the  Englishman. 

Nehliidof  translated  the  question. 

The  old  manlaughedstrangely,  showing  his  regular  teeth. 

"The  laws?"  he  repeated  with  contempt.  "First 
Antichrist  robbed  everybody,  took  all  the  earth,  and  all 
rights  away  from  them— took  them  all  for  himself — 
killed  all  those  who  were  against  him — and  then  He  wrote 
laws  forbidding  to  rob  and  to  kill.  He  should  have 
written  those  laws  sooner." 

Nehliidof  translated.     The  EngHshman  smiled. 

"Well,  anyhow,  ask  him  how  one  should  treat  thieves 
and  murderers  now?" 

27 


4-18  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Nehliidof  again  translated  the  question. 

"Tell  him  he  should  take  the  seal  of  Antichrist  off  from 
himself,"  the  old  man  said,  frowning  severely;  "then  he 
will  know  neither  thieves  nor  murderers.     Tell  him  so." 

"He  is  crazy,"  said  the  EngUshman,  when  Nehliidof  had 
translated  the  old  man's  words;  and  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders he  left  the  cell. 

"Do  thine  own  task  and  leave  others  alone.  Every 
one  for  himself.  God  knows  whom  to  execute,  whom  to 
pardon,  but  we  do  not  know,"  said  the  old  man.  "Be 
your  own  chief,  then  chiefs  will  not  be  wanted.  Go,  go," 
he  added,  frowning  angrily,  and  looking  with  glittering 
eyes  at  Nehliidof,  who  lingered  in  the  ward.  "Hast  thou 
not  gazed  enough  on  how  the  servants  of  Antichrist  feed 
lice  on  men?     Go!     Go!" 


{From  "Challenge") 

By  Louis  Untermeyer 

(See  pages  42,  418) 

T  T  was  Sunday — 

^   Eleven  in  the  morning;  people  were  at  church — 
Prayers  were  in  the  making;  God  was  near  at  hand — 
Down  the  cramped  and  narrow  streets  of  quiet  Lawrence 
Came  the  tramp  of  workers  marching  in  their  hundreds; 
Marching  in  the  morning,  marching  to  the  grave-yard, 
Where,  no  longer  fiery,  underneath  the  grasses, 
Callous  and  uncaring,  lay  their  friend  and  sister. 
In  their  hands  they  carried  wreaths  and  drooping  flowers, 
Overhead  their  banners  dipped  and  soared  Uke  eagles — 


The    Church  419 

Aye,  but  eagles  bleeding,  stained  with  their  own  heart's 

blood — 
Red,  but  not  for  glory — red,  with  wounds  and  travail. 
Red,  the  buoyant  symbol  of  the  blood  of  all  the  world. 
So  they  bore  their  banners,  singing  toward  the  grave-yard, 
So  they  marched  and  chanted,  mingling  tears  and  tributes. 
So,  with  flowers,  the  dying  went  to  deck  the  dead. 

Within  the  churches  people  heard 

The  sound,  and  much  concern  was  theirs — 

God  might  not  hear  the  Sacred  Word — 
God  might  not  hear  their  prayers! 

Should  such  things  be  allowed  these  slaves — 
To  vex  the  Sabbath  peace  with  Song, 

To  come  with  chants,  like  marching  waves. 
That  proudly  swept  along. 

Suppose  God  turned  to  these — and  heard! 

Suppose  He  listened  unawares — 
God  might  forget  the  Sacred  Word, 

God  might  forget  their  prayers! 

And  so  (the  tragic  irony) 

The  blue-clad  Guardians  of  the  Peace 
Were  sent  to  sweep  them  back — ^to  see 

The  ribald  Song  should  cease; 

To  scatter  those  who  came  and  vexed 
God  with  their  troubled  cries  and  cares. 

Quiet — so  God  might  hear  the  text; 
The  sleek  and  unctuous  prayers! 


I^20  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Up  the  rapt  and  singing  streets  of  little  Lawrence 
Came  the  stolid  soldiers;  and,  behind  the  bluecoats, 
Grinning  and  invisible,  bearing  unseen  torches. 
Rode  red  hordes  of  anger,  sweeping  all  before  them. 
Lust  and  Evil  joined  them— Terror  rode  among  them; 
Fury  fired  its  pistols;   Madness  stabbed  and  yelled. 
Through  the  wild  and  bleeding  streets  of  shuddering 

Lawrence, 
Raged  the  heedless  panic,  hour-long  and  bitter. 
Passion  tore  and  trampled;  men  once  mild  and  peaceful. 
Fought  with  savage  hatred  in  the  name  of  Law  and  Order. 
And,  below  the  outcry,  like  the  sea  beneath  the  breakers, 
Mingling  with  the  anguish,  rolled  the  solemn  organ.  .  .  . 

Eleven  in  the  morning — people  were  at  church — 
Prayers  were  in  the  making — God  was  near  at  hand — 
It  was  Sunday! 


By  Isaiah 

T Tear  the  word  of  the  Lord,  ye  rulers  of  Sodom;  give 

■^  ■*•  ear  unto  the  law  of  our  God,  ye  people  of  Gomorrah. 
To  what  purpose  is  the  multitude  of  your  sacrifices  unto 
me?  saith  the  Lord.  .  .  .  Bring  no  more  vain  obla- 
tions. .  .  .  When  ye  spread  forth  your  hands,  I  will 
hide  mine  eyes  from  you;  yea  when  ye  make  many  prayers 
I  will  not  hear;  your  hands  are  full  of  blood. 


a 


The    Church  W 

%.9  tfie  Preacher 

{From  "In  This  Our  World") 

By  Charlotte  Perkins  Oilman 

(See  pages  200,  209) 

'PR'EACH  about  yesterday,  Preacher! 
■'■  The  time  so  far  away: 

When  the  hand  of  Deity  smote  and  slew, 
And  the  heathen  plagued  the  stiff-necked  Jew; 
Or  when  the  Man  of  Sorrow  came. 
And  blessed  the  people  who  cursed  his  name — 
Preach  about  yesterday,  Preacher, 
Not  about  today! 

Preach  about  tomorrow.  Preacher! 

Beyond  this  world's  decay: 
Of  the  sheepfold  Paradise  we  priced 
When  we  pinned  our  faith  to  Jesus  Christ; 
Of  those  hot  depths  that  shall  receive 
The  goats  who  would  not  so  believe — 
Preach  about  tomorrow.  Preacher, 

Not  about  today! 

Preach  about  the  old  sins.  Preacher! 

And  the  old  virtues,  too : 
You  must  not  steal  nor  take  man's  life. 
You  must  not  covet  your  neighbor's  wife. 
And  woman  must  cling  at  every  cost 
To  her  one  virtue,  or  she  is  lost — 
Preach  about  the  old  sins.  Preacher! 

Not  about  the  new! 


l^22  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Preach  about  the  other  man,  Preacher! 

The  man  we  all  can  see ! 
The  man  of  oaths,  the  man  of  strife, 
The  man  who  drinks  and  beats  his  wife. 
Who  helps  his  mates  to  fret  and  shirk 
When  all  they  need  is  to  keep  at  work — 
Preach  about  the  other  man.  Preacher! 

Not  about  me! 


%^z  Kfluctant  T£>uttt 

By  Lincoln  Steffens 

(The  president  of  a  powerful  public  service  corporation  has 

become  disturbed  in  conscience,  and  calls  in  a  student 

of  social  conditions) 

'  *  'V/'OU'RE  unhappy  because  you  are  bribing  and 
•^  corrupting,  and  you  ask  my  advice.  Why? 
I'm  no  ethical  teacher.  You're  a  churchman.  Why 
don't  you  go  to  your  pastor?" 

"Pastor!"  he  exclaimed,  and  he  laughed.  The  scorn 
of  that  laugh!     "Pastor!" 

He  turned  and  walked  away,  to  get  control,  no  doubt. 
I  kept  after  him. 

"Yes,"  I  insisted,  "you  should  go  to  the  head  of  your 
church  for  moral  counsel,  and — for  economic  advice  you 
should  go  to  the  professor  of  economics  in " 

He  stopped  me,  facing  about.  "Professor!"  he  echoed, 
and  he  didn't  reflect  my  tone. 

I  was  serious.  I  wanted  to  get  something  from  him. 
I  wanted  to  know  why  our  practical  men  do  not  go  to 
these  professions  for  help,   as  they  go  to  lawyers   and 


The    Church  423 

engineers.  And  this  man  had  given  time  and  money  to 
the  university  in  his  town  and  to  his  chm-ch,  as  I  re- 
minded him. 

"You  support  colleges  and  churches,  you  and  your 
kind  do,"  I  said.     "What  for?" 

"For  women  and  children,"  he  snapped  from  his 
distance. 


By  Savonarola 

(Italian  religious  reformer,  1452—1498;    hanged  and  burned  by  his 

enemies) 

T3  UT  dost  thou  know  what  I  would  tell  thee?  In  the 
-I — '  primitive  church,  the  chalices  were  of  wood,  the 
prelates  of  gold.  In  these  days  the  church  hath  chalices 
of  gold  and  prelates  of  wood. 


(From  "The  Canterbury  Tales") 

By  Geoffrey  Chaucer 

(Early  EngUsh  poet,  1340-1400) 

THAN  peyne  I  me  to  strecche  forth  my  necke. 
And  est  and  west  upon  the  people  I  bekke. 
As  doth  a  pigeon,  syttyng  on  a  loft; 
Myn  hondes  and  my  tonge  move  so  oft. 
That  it  is  joye  to  see  my  busynesse. 
Of  avarice  and  of  suche  ciu-sedness 
Is  al  my  preching,  for  to  make  hem  free 
To  give  their  pence,  and  namely  unto  me.  .  .  . 


J^%Jf-  The    Cry  for   Justice 

Therfor  my  theem  is  yit,  and  ever  was, 
The  root  of  evils  is  cupidity. 
Thus  can  I  preche  agayn  the  same  vice 
Which  that  I  use,  and  that  is  avarice. 
But  though  myself  be  gilty  in  the  same, 
Yit  can  I  maken  other  folks  to  blame. 


'EtomtietS  Ctntutp  feocialisfm 

By  Edmond  Kelly 
(American  lawyer  and  Socialist,  1851-1909) 

IT  seems  inconceivable  that  the  same  civilization  should 
include  two  bodies  of  men  living  in  apparent  harmony 
and  yet  holding  such  opposite  and  inconsistent  views  of 
man  as  economists  on  the  one  hand  and  theologians  on  the 
other.  To  these  last,  man  has  no  economic  needs;  this 
world  does  not  count;  it  is  merely  a  place  of  probation, 
mitigated  sometimes,  it  is  true,  by  ecclesiastical  pomp  and 
episcopal  palaces;  but  serving  for  the  most  part  as  a  mere 
preparation  for  a  future  existence  which  will  satisfy  the 
aspirations  of  the  human  soul — the  only  thing  that  does 
count,  in  this  world  or  the  next.  So  while  to  the  economist 
man  is  all  hog,  to  the  theologian  he  is  all  soul;  and  between 
the  two  the  devil  secures  the  vast  majority. 


The    Church  J^25 

{From  "A  Lay  Sermon  to  Preachers") 

By  Henby  Arthur  Jones 

(English  dramatist,  bom  1851) 

T  BELIEVE — I  stand  accountant  for  the  words  to  That 
•*•  which  gave  me  the  power  of  thinking  and  writing 
them — I  believe  that  if  the  time  and  money  and  thought 
now  given  in  England  to  the  propagation  of  wholly 
incredible  doctrines,  which  are  no  sooner  uttered  in  one 
pulpit  than  they  are  repudiated  in  another — if  this  time 
and  money  and  thought  were  given  to  the  understanding 
and  scattering  abroad  of  the  simplest  laws  of  national 
economy,  of  physiologj',  of  health  and  beauty,  in  another 
generation  our  England  would  be  greater  and  mightier 
than  she  has  ever  been.  I  believe  a  knowledge  of  the 
necessity  of  fresh  air,  of  the  value  of  beauty,  of  the  certain 
disease  and  national  corruption  and  deathfulness  hidden 
in  our  present  commercial  system,  to  be  worth  far  more 
than  all  the  books  on  theology  ever  written.  I  believe 
faith  in  constant  ventilation  and  constant  outdoor  exercise 
to  be  a  greater  religious  necessity  than  faith  in  any  doctrine 
of  any  sect  in  England  today. 


426  The    Cry   for    Justice 

(13ati  in  i^t  ^orlb 

{From  "Gitanjali") 

By  Rabindeanath  Tagore 

(Most  popular  of  Hindoo  poets,  who  recently  achieved  international 
fame,  and  received  the  Nobel  prize) 

T  EAVE  this  chanting  and  singing  and  telHng  of  beads! 
■I — '  Whom  dost  thou  worship  in  this  lonely  dark  comer 
of  a  temple  with  doors  all  shut?  Open  thine  eyes  and  see 
thy  God  is  not  before  thee! 

He  is  there  where  the  tiller  is  tilling  the  hard  ground  and 
where  the  pathmaker  is  breaking  stones.  He  is  with  them 
in  sun  and  in  shower,  and  his  garment  is  covered  with  dust. 
Put  off  thy  holy  mantle  and  even  like  him  come  down  on  the 
dusty  soil! 

Deliverance?  Where  is  this  deliverance  to  be  found? 
Our  master  himself  has  joyfully  taken  upon  him  the  bonds 
of  creation;  he  is  bound  with  us  all  for  ever. 

Come  out  of  thy  meditations  and  leave  aside  thy 
flowers  and  incense!  What  harm  is  there  if  thy  clothes 
become  tattered  and  stained?  Meet  him  and  stand  by 
him  in  toil  and  in  sweat  of  thy  brow. 


^tit0t0 

{From  "Songs  for  the  New  Age") 

By  James  Oppenheim 

(See  pages  45,  129,  147) 

■pRIESTS  are  in.  bad  odor,   -- 

■'-      And  yet  there  shall  be  no  lack  of  them. 

The  skies  shall  not  lack  a  spokesman, 

Nor  the  spirit  of  man  a  voice  and  a  gesture. 


The    Church  ^27 

Not  garbed  nor  churched, 
Yet,  as  of  old,  in  loneliness  and  anguish, 
They  shall  come  eating  and  drinking  among  us, 
With  scourge,  pity,  and  prayer. 


{From  "The  Book  of  The  People") 
By  Robert  de  Lamennais 
(French  philosopher  and  religious  reformer,  1782-1854) 

"V/'OUE,  task  is  to  form  the  universal  family,  to  build  the 
J-     City  of  God,  and  by  a  continuous  labor  gradually 
to  translate  His  work  in  Humanity  into  fact. 

When  you  love  one  another  as  brothers,  and  treat  each 
other  reciprocally  as  such;  when  each  one,  seeking  his 
own  good  in  the  good  of  all,  shall  identify  his»  own  life 
with  the  life  of  all,  his  own  interests  with  the  interests  of 
all,  and  shall  be  always  ready  to  sacrifice  himself  for  all 
the  members  of  the  common  family — then  most  of  the 
ills  which  weigh  upon  the  human  race  will  vanish,  as  thick 
mists  gathered  upon  the  horizon  vanish  at  the  rising  of  the 
Sim. 


BOOK  IX 

The  Voice  of  the  Ages 


Records  from  all  the  past  history  of  mankind  from  twenty-five 
different  races ;  the  earliest  .being  about  3500  B.  C. 


(From  "The  Ancient  Lowly") 

By  C.  Osborne  Ward 

(American  historian,  who  was  forced  to  pubHsh  at  his  own  expense 

the  results  of  his  life-time  researches  into  the  early 

history  of  the  working  class) 

T^HE  great  strikes  and  uprisings  of  the  working  people 
-••  of  the  ancient  world  are  almost  unknown  to  the  living 
age.  It  matters  little  how  accounts  of  five  immense 
strike-wars,  involving  destruction  of  property  and  mutual 
slaughter  of  millions  of  people,  have  been  suppressed,  or 
have  otherwise  failed  to  reach  us;  the  fact  remains  that 
people  are  absolutely  ignorant  of  these  great  events. 
A  meagre  sketch  of  Spartacus  may  be  seen  in  the  encyclo- 
pedias, but  it  is  always  ruined  and  its  interest  pinched  and 
bhghted  by  being  classed  with  crime,  its  heroes  with 
criminals,  its  theme  with  desecration.  Yet  Spartacus 
was  one  of  the  great  generals  of  history;  fully  equal  to 
Hannibal  and  Napoleon,  while  his  cause  was  much  more 
just  and  infinitely  nobler,  his  life  a  model  of  the  beautiful 
and  virtuous,  his  death  an  episode  of  surpassing  grandeur. 
Still  more  strange  is  it,  that  the  great  ten-years'  war 
of  Eunus  should  be  unknown.  He  marshalled  at  one  time 
an  army  of  two  htmdred  thousand  soldiers.  He  manceu- 
vered  them  and  fought  for  ten  full  years  for  liberty, 
defeating  army  after  army  of  Rome.  Why  is  the  world 
ignorant  of  this  fierce,  epochal  rebellion?  Almost  the 
whole  matter  is  passed  over  in  silence  by  our  histories  of 
Rome.  In  these  pages  it  will  be  read  as  news,  yet  should 
a  similar  war  rage  in  our  day,  against  a  similar  condition 


432  The    Cry   for    Justice 

of  slavery,  its  cause  would  not  only  be  considered  just, 
but  the  combatants  would  have  the  sympathy  and  sup- 
port of  the  civilized  world. 

The  great  system  of  labor  organization  explained  in 
these  pages  must  likewise  be  regarded  as  a  chapter  of  news. 
The  portentous  fact  has  lain  in  abeyance  century  after 
century,  with  the  human  family  in  profound  ignorance 
of  an  organization  of  trades  and  other  labor  unions  so 
powerful  that  for  hundreds  of  years  they  undertook  and 
successfully  conducted  the  business  of  manufacture,  of 
distribution,  of  piu'veying  provisions  to  armies,  of  feeding 
the  inhabitants  of  the  largest  cities  in  the  world,  of  invent- 
ing, supplying  and  working  the  huge  engines  of  war,  and 
of  collecting  customs  and  taxes — ^tasks  confided  to  their 
care  by  the  state. 

Our  civilization  has  a  blushingly  poor  excuse  for  its 
profound  ignorance  of  these  facts ;  for  the  evidences  have 
existed  from  much  before  the  beginning  of  our  era.  .  .  . 
They  are  growing  fewer  and  dimmer  as  their  value  rises 
higher  in  the  estimation  of  a  thinking,  appreciative, 
gradually  awakening  world. 


By  Plutarch 

(Greek  historian,  A.  D.  50-120;  author  of  numerous  biographical 
sketches.  It  has  been  said;  He  stands  before  us  as  the  legate, 
the  ambassador,  and  the  orator  on  behalf  of  those  institutions 
whereby  the  old-time  men  were  rendered  wise  and  virtuous) 

AA  T^HEN  the  love  of  gold  and  silver  had  once  gained 

'  '     admittance  into  the  Lacedaemonian  commonwealth, 

it  was  quickly  followed  by  avarice  and  baseness  of  spirit 


The    Voice    of   the    Ages  433 

in  the  pursuit  of  it,  and  by  luxury,  effeminacy  and  pro- 
digality in  the  use.  Then  Sparta  fell  from  almost  all  her 
former  virtue  and  repute.  .  .  . 

For  the  rich  men  without  scruple  drew  the  estate  into 
their  own  hands,  excluding  the  rightful  heirs  from  their 
succession;  and  all  the  wealth  being  centered  upon  the 
few,  the  generality  were  poor  and  miserable.  Honorable 
pursuits,  for  which  there  was  no  longer  leisure,  were 
neglected;  the  state  was  filled  with  sordid  business,  and 
with  hatred  and  euAry  of  the  rich.  .  .  . 

Agis,  therefore,  believing  it  a  glorious  action,  as  in  truth 
it  was,  to  equahze  and  repeople  the  state,  began  to  sound 
the  inclinations  of  the  citizens.  He  found  the  young  men 
disposed  beyond  his  expectation;  they  were  eager  to 
enter  with  him  upon  the  contest  in  the  cause  of  virtue, 
and  to  fling  aside,  for  freedom's  sake,  their  old  manner  of 
life,  as  readily  as  the  wrestler  does  his  garment.  But 
the  old  men,  habituated  and  confirmed  in  their  vices,  were 
most  of  them  alarmed.  These  men  could  not  endure  to 
hear  Agis  continually  deploring  the  present  state  of 
Sparta,  and  wishing  she  might  be  restored  to  her  ancient 
glory.  .  .  . 

Agis,  nevertheless,  little  regarding  these  rumours,  took 
the  first  occasion  of  proposing  his  measure  to  the  council, 
the  chief  articles  of  which  were  these:  That  every  one 
should  be  free  from  their  debts;  all  the  lands  to  be  divided 
into  equal  portions.  .  .  . 

The  people  were  transported  with  admiration  of  the 
young  man's  generosity,  and  with  joy  that,  after  three 
hundred  years'  interval,  at  last  there  had  appeared  a 
king  worthy  of  Sparta.  But,  on  the  other  side,  Leonidas 
was  now  more  than  ever  averse,  being  sensible  that  he 
and  his  friends  would  be  obliged  to  contribute  with  their 


434  The    Cry   for    Justice 

riches,  and  yet  all  the  honour  and  obligation  would  redound 
to  Agis.     [Sparta  had  two  kings,  Leonidas  and  Agis.] 

From  this  time  forward,  as  the  common  people  followed 
Agis,  so  the  rich  men  adhered  to  Leonidas.  They  besought 
him  not  to  forsake  their  cause;  and  with  persuasions  and 
entreaties  so  far  prevailed  with  the  council  of  Elders, 
whose  power  consisted  in  preparing  all  laws  before  they 
were  proposed  to  the  people,  that  the  designed  measure 
was  rejected,  though  but  by  one  vote. 

[Attacked  by  his  enemies,  Agis  sought  refuge  in  a 
temple.]  Leonidas  proceeded  also  to  displace  the  ephors, 
and  to  choose  others  in  their  stead;  then  he  began  to 
consider  how  he  might  entrap  Agis.  At  first,  he  endeav- 
ored by  fair  means  to  persuade  him  to  leave  the  sanctuary, 
and  partake  with  him  in  the  kingdom.  The  people,  he 
said,  would  easily  pardon  the  errors  of  a  young  man, 
ambitious  of  glory.  But  finding  Agis  was  suspicious,  and 
not  to  be  prevailed  with  to  quit  his  sanctuary,  he  gave  up 
that  design;  yet  what  could  not  then  be  effected  by  the 
dissimulation  of  an  enemy,  was  soon  after  brought  to 
pass  by  the  treachery  of  friends. 

Amphares,  Damochares,  and  Arcesilaus  often  visited 
Agis,  and  he  was  so  confident  of  their  fidelity  that  after 
a  while  he  was  prevailed  on  to  accompany  them  to  the 
baths,  which  were  not  far  distant,  they  constantly  return- 
ing to  see  him  safe  again  in  the  temple.  They  were  all 
three  his  familiars;  and  Amphares  had  borrowed  a  great 
deal  of  plate  and  rich  household  stuff  from  the  mother  of 
Agis,  and  hoped  if  he  could  destroy  her  and  the  whole 
family,  he  might  peaceably  enjoy  those  goods.  And  he, 
it  is  said,  was  the  readiest  of  all  to  serve  the  purposes  of 
Leonidas,  and  being  one  of  the  ephors,  did  all  he  could  to 
incense  the  rest  of  his  colleagues  against  Agis.    These  men. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  435 

therefore,  finding  that  Agis  would  not  quit  his  sanctuary, 
but  on  occasion  would  venture  from  it  to  go  to  the  bath, 
resolved  to  seize  him  on  the  opportunity  thus  given  them. 
And  one  day  as  he  was  returning,  they  met  and  saluted 
him  as  formerly,  conversing  pleasantly  by  the  way,  and 
jesting,  as  youthful  friends  might,  till  coming  to  the  turn- 
ing of  the  street  which  led  to  the  prison,  Amphares,  by 
virtue  of  his  office,  laid  his  hand  on  Agis,  and  told  him, 
"You  .must  go  with  me,  Agis,  before  the  other  ephors, 
to  answer  for  your  misdemeanors."  At  the  same  time 
Damochares,  who  was  a  tall,  strong  man,  drew  his  cloak 
tight  around  his  neck,  and  dragged  him  after  by  it,  whilst 
the  others  went  behind  to  thrust  him  on.  So  that  none  of 
Agis'  friends  being  near  to  assist  him,  nor  any  one  by, 
they  easily  got  him  into  the  prison,  where  Leonidas  was 
abeady  arrived,  with  a  company  of  soldiers,  who  strongly 
guarded  all  the  avenues;  the  ephors  also  came  in,  with  as 
many  of  the  Elders  as  they  knew  to  be  true  to  their  party, 
being  desirous  to  proceed  with  some  semblance  of  justice. 
And  thus  they  bade  him  give  an  account  of  his  actions. 
To  which  Agis,  smiling  at  their  dissimulation,  answered 
not  a  word.  Amphares  told  him  it  was  more  seasonable 
for  him  to  weep,  for  now  the  time  was  come  in  which  he 
should  be  punished  for  his  presumption.  Another  of  the 
ephors,  as  though  he  would  be  more  favorable,  and  offering 
as  it  were  an  excuse,  asked  him  whether  he  was  not  forced 
to  what  he  did  by  Agesilaus  and  Lysander.  But  Agis 
answered,  he  had  not  been  constrained  by  any  man,  nor 
had  any  other  intent  in  what  he  did  but  to  follow  the 
example  of  Lycurgus,  and  to  govern  conformably  to  his 
laws.  The  same  ephor  asked  him  whether  now  at  least 
he  did  not  repent  his  rashness.  To  which  the  young  man 
answered  that  though  he  were  to  suffer  the  extremest 


436  The    Cry   for    Justice 

penalty  for  it,  yet  he  could  never  repent  of  so  just  and 
glorious  a  design.  Upon  this  they  passed  sentence  of 
death  on  him,  and  bade  the  officers  carry  him  to  the 
Dechas,  as  it  is  called,  a  place  in  the  prison  where  they 
strangle  malefactors.  And  when  the  officers  would  not 
venture  to  lay  hands  on  him,  and  the  very  mercenary 
soldiers  declined  it,  believing  it  an  illegal  and  a  wicked 
act  to  lay  violent  hands  on  a  king,  Damochares,  threaten- 
ing and  reviling  them  for  it,  himself  thrust  him  into  the 
room. 

For  by  this  time  the  news  of  his  being  seized  had  reached 
many  parts  of  the  city,  and  there  was  a  conco'urse  of  people 
with  lights  and  torches  about  the  prison  gates,  and  in  the 
midst  of  them  the  mother  and  the  grandmother  of  Agis, 
crying  out  with  a  loud  voice  that  their  king  ought  to 
appear,  and  to  be  heard  and  judged  by  the  people.  But 
this  clamour,  instead  of  preventing,  hastened  his  death; 
his  enemies  fearing,  if  the  tumult  should  increase,  he 
might  be  rescued  during  the  night  out  of  their  hands. 

Agis,  being  now  at  the  point  to  die,  perceived  one  of 
the  officers  bitterly  bewailing  his  misfortune.  "Weep, 
not,  friend,"  said  he,  "for  me,  who  die  innocent,  by  the 
lawless  act  of  wicked  men.  My  condition  is  much  better 
than  theirs."  As  soon  as  he  had  spoken  these  words,  not 
showing  the  least  sign  of  fear,  he  offered  his  neck  to  the 
noose. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  437 

%^t  Eabor  i^roblcm  in  (Eggpt 

{From  the  Book  of  Exodiis) 

(Hebrew,  B.  C.  Fourteenth  Centiiry;  a  record  of  one  of  the 
earliest  of  labor  disputes) 

OHARAOH  said,  "Who  is  the  Lord,  that  I  should 
*-  hearken  unto  his  voice  to  let  Israel  go?  I  know  not 
the  Lord,  and  moreover  I  will  not  let  Israel  go.  .  .  . 
Wherefore  do  ye,  Moses  and  Aaron,  loose  the  people  from 
their  work?  get  you  unto  your  burdens.  .  .  .  Let 
heavier  work  be  laid  upon  the  men,  that  they  mav  labour 
therein;  and  let  them  not  regard  lying  words.  .  .  . 
Ye  are  idle,  ye  are  idle;  therefore  ye  say,  Let  us  go  and 
sacrifice  to  the  Lord.  Go  therefore  now,  and  work; 
for  there  shall  no  straw  be  given  you,  yet  shall  ye  deliver 
the  tale  of  bricks." 

And  the  officers  of  the  children  of  Israel  did  see  that 
they  were  in  evil  case,  when  it  was  said,  "Ye  shall  not 
minish  aught  from  your  bricks,  your  daily  task." 

And  they  met  Moses  and  Aaron,  who  stood  in  the  way, 
as  they  came  forth  from  Pharaoh:  and  they  said  unto 
them,  "The  Lord  look  upon  you  and  judge;  because 
you  have  made  our  savour  to  be  abhorred  in  the  eyes  of 
Pharaoh,  and  in  the  eyes  of  his  servants,  to  put  a  sword 
in  their  hand  to  slay  us." 

And  Moses  retiu'ned  .unto  the  Lord,  and  said,  "Lord, 
wherefore  hast  thou  evil  entreated  this  people?  Why  is  it 
that  thou  hast  sent  me?  For  since  I  came  to  Pharaoh  to 
speak  in  thy  name,  he  hath  evil  entreated  this  people; 
neither  hast  thou  delivered  thy  people  at  all." 

Then  the  Lord  said  imto  Moses,  "Now  shalt  thou  see 
what  I  will  do  to  Pharaoh:  for  with  a  strong  hand  shall 
he  let  them  go,  and  with  a  strong  hand  shall  he  drive  them 
out  of  his  land." 


438  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Tommaso  Campanella 

(Italian  philosopher,  1568-1639.     Translation  by  John  Addington 
Symonds) 

I  ^HE  people  is  a  beast  of  muddy  brain 

■^     That  knows  not  its  own  strength,  and  therefore  stands 
Loaded  with  wood  and  stone;  the  powerless  hands 
Of  a  mere  child  guide  it  with  bit  and  rein; 
One  kick  would  be  enough  to  break  the  chain, 
But  the  beast  fears,  and  what  the  child  demands 
It  does;  nor  its  own  terror  understands, 
Confused  and  stupefied  by  bugbears  vain. 
Most  wonderful !    With  its  own  hand  it  ties 
And  gags  itself — gives  itself  death  and  war 
For  pence  doled  out  by  kings  from  its  own  store. 
Its  own  are  all  things  between  earth  and  heaven; 
But  this  it  knows  not;  and  if  one  arise 
To  tell  this  truth,  it  kills  him  unforgiven. 


From  Ecclesiastes 
(Hebrew,  B.C.  200) 

'I  "HEN  I  returned  and  saw  all  oppressions  that  are 
■^  done  under  the  sun:  and  behold,  the  tears  of  such  as 
were  oppressed,  and  they  had  no  comforter;  and  on  the 
side  of  their  oppressors  there  was  power,  but  they  had  no 
comforter.  Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  which  are 
already  dead  more  than  the  living  which  are  yet  alive; 
yea,  better  than  them  both  did  I  esteem  him  which  hath 
not  yet  been,  who  hath  not  seen  the  evil  work  that  is  done 
under  the  sun. 


~S2 

O 


o 


ta 


■a 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  439 

'^i'btti\x&  (Btaccfiusf 

{Tribune  of  the  Roman  People) 
By  Plutarch 
(Greek,  A.D.  50-120) 

I  "IBERIUS,  maintaining  an  honorable  and  just  cause, 
■*■  and  possessed  of  eloquence  sufficient  to  have  made  a 
less  creditable  action  appear  plausible,  was  no  safe  or 
easy  antagonist,  when,  with  the  people  crowding  around 
the  hustings,  he  took  his  place  and  spoke  in  behalf  of  the 
poor.  "The  savage  beasts,"  said  he,  "in  Italy,  have  their 
particular  dens,  they  have  their  places  of  repose  and 
refuge;  but  the  men  who  bear  arms,  and  expose  their 
lives  for  the  safety  of  their  country,  enjoy  in  the  mean- 
time nothing  in  it  but  the  air  and  light;  and,  having  no 
houses  or  settlements  of  their  own,  are  constrained  to 
wander  from  place  to  place  with  their  wives  and  children." 
He  told  them  that  the  commanders  were  guilty  of  a  ridicu- 
lous error,  when,  at  the  head  of  their  armies,  they  exhorted 
the  common  soldiers  to  fight  for  their  sepulchers  and 
altars;  when  not  any  amongst  so  many  Romans  is  pos- 
sessed of  either  altar  or  monument,  neither  have  they  any 
houses  of  their  own,  or  hearths  of  their  ancestors  to  defend. 
They  fought  indeed  and  were  slain,  but  it  was  to  maintain 
the  luxury  and  the  wealth  of  other  men.  They  were 
styled  the  masters  of  the  world,  but  had  not  one  foot  of 
ground  they  could  call  their  own. 


440  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Captibe  (Boon  ^ttrnDtng  Captain  311 

By  Euripides 

(Athenian  tragic  poet,  B.C.  480-406;   the  most  modern  of  ancient 
writers.     Translation  by  John  Addington  Symonds) 

T~^OTH  some  one  say  that  there  be  gods  above? 

■' — ^     There  are  not;  no,  there  are  not.     Let  no  fool. 

Led  by  the  old  false  fable,  thus  deceive  you. 

Look  at  the  facts  themselves,  yielding  my  words 

No  undue  credence;  for  I  say  that  kings 

Kill,  rob,  break  oaths,  lay  cities  waste  by  fraud, 

And  doing  thus  are  happier  than  those 

Who  live  calm  pious  lives  day  after  day. 

How  many  little  states  that  serve  the  gods 

Are  subject  to  the  godless  but  more  strong, 

Made  slaves  by  might  of  a  superior  army! 


Pofatctp 

By  Alcaeus 

(Greek  l5Tic  poet,    B.C.  611-580,'    banished  for  his  resistance  to 
tyrants.     Translation  by  Sir  William  Jones) 

'T~'HE  worst  of  ills,  and  hardest  to  endure, 

■^  Past  hope,  past  cure, 

Is  Penury,  who,  with  her  sister-mate 
Disorder,  soon  brings  down  the  loftiest  state, 

And  makes  it  desolate. 
This  truth  the  sage  of  Sparta  told, 

Aristodemus  old, — 
"Wealth  makes  the  man."     On  him  that's  poor 
Proud  Worth  looks  down,  and  Honor  shuts  the  door. 


The    Voice    of   the   Ages  441 

'atSf  Btffsar'g  Complaint 

(Ancient  Japanese  classic) 

''  I  "HE  heaven  and  earth  they  call  so  great, 

-^      For  me  are  very  small; 
The  sun  and  moon  they  call  so  bright, 
For  me  ne'er  shine  at  all. 

Are  all  men  sad,  or  only  I? 

And  what  have  I  obtained — 
What  good  the  gift  of  mortal  life, 

That  prize  so  rarely  gained — 

If  nought  my  chilly  back  protects 

But  one  thin  grass-cloth  coat, 
In  tatters  hanging  like  the  weeds 

That  on  the  billows  float? 

If  here  in  smoke-stained,  darksome  hut, 

Upon  the  bare  cold  ground, 
I  make  my  wretched  bed  of  straw, 

And  hear  the  mournful  sound — 

Hear  how  mine  aged  parents  groan, 

And  wife  and  children  cry, 
Father  and  mother,  children,  wife, 

Huddling  in  misery— 

If  in  the  rice-pan,  nigh  forgot. 

The  spider  hangs  its  nest, 
And  from  the  hearth  no  smoke  goes  up 

Where  all  is  so  unblest? 

Shame  and  despair  are  mine  from  day  to  day, 
But,  being  no  bird,'  I  cannot  fly  away. 


Ji-^2  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Sittt  Ealior 

By   Haggai 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.C.  515) 


H 


E  that  earneth  wages  earneth  wages  to  put  it  into  a 
bag  with  holes. 


By  Abistophanes 

(Greek  comedy  writer  and  satirist;  B.C.  450-380.  There  is 
probably  not  a  Socialist  in  the  world  who  has  not  been  asked  the 
question:  "Who  will  do  the  dirty  work?"  It  is  interesting  to  see 
this  difficulty  set  forth  in  a  comedy  which  was  staged  in  Athens  in 
the  year  408  B.C.  Chremylus  and  Blepsidemus,  two  citizens,  have 
taken  in  charge  Plutus,  the  god  of  wealth,  who  is  bhnd.  They  have 
undertaken  to  cure  him  of  his  blindness;  but  an  old  hag  by  the  name 
of  Poverty  appears,  and  offers  to  convince  them  that  their  success 
would  mean  a  calamity  to  the  human  race) 

CHREMYLUS: — As  matters  now  stand  (who  will  dare 
contradict  it?)  the  life  of  us  men  is  compos'd 
Of  a  system  where  folly,  absurdity,  madness,  ay,  raving 

downright  is  disclosed; 
Since,  how  many  a  knave  we  see  revel  in  wealth — the 

rich  heap  of  his  ill-gotten  store — 
And  how  many  a  good  man,  by  fortune  unblest,  with 

thee  begging  bread  at  the   door!      {Turns   to 

Poverty.) 
I  say,  then,  there  is  but  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  if  we 

succeed,  what  a  prize 
Will  we  bring  to  mankind!     That  thing  it  will  be — to 

give  Plutus  the  use  of  his  eyes. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  ^S 

Poverty: — A  pest  on  your  prate,  and  palavering  stuff! 

back!  begone  with  ye,  blockheads,  to  school! 
You  pair  of  old  dotards,  you  drivelling  comrades  in 

trifling  and  playing  the  fool! 
If  the  plan  ye  propose  be  accomplish'd  at  last  nothing 

worse  could  mankind  e'er  befall. 
Than  that  Plutus  should  have  the  full  use  of  his  eyes, 

and  bestow  himself  equal  on  all! 
See  you  not,  that  at  once,  to  all  arts  there  would  be, 

to  each  craft  that  you  reckon,  an  end? 
If  these  were  exploded  (so  much  to  your  joy),  say  who 

ihen  should  there  be,  who  would  lend 
To  the  forge,  to  the  hammer,  the  adze  or  the  loom — 

to  the  rule  or  the  mallet — his  hand? 
Not  a  soul!    The  mechanic,  the  carpenter,  shipwright — 

would  all  be  expelled  from  the  land. 
Where  would  tailor,  or  cobbler,  or  dyer  of  leather,  or 

bricklay'r,  or  tanner  be  found? 
Who  would  e'er  condescend  in  this  golden  vacation, 

to  till,  for  his  bread's  sake,  the  ground? 
Blepsidemus: — Hold,  hold,  jade!     Whatever  essentials  of 

life  in  your  catalogue's  column  you  string, 
Our  servants,  of  course,  shall  provide  us. 
Poverty: — Your  servants?   and  whence  do  you  think 

they  shall  spring? 
Blepsidemus  : — We  shall  buy  them  with  cash — 
Poverty: — ^But  with  cash  all  the  world  as  well  as  yoiu-self 

is  supplied! 
Who  will  care  about  selling? 
Blepsidemus: — Some   dealer,   no   doubt,    coming   down 

from  the  Thessaly  side, 
(A  rare  kidnapping  nest)  who  may  wish  to  secure  a  good 

bargain  to  profit  the  trade. 


44^  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Poverty  (impatiently): — You  will  not  understand!      In 

the  lots  of  mankind  when  this  grand  revolution 

is  made 
'Twill  at  once  put  an  end  to  all  wants — and  of  course 

then,  the  kidnapper's  business  will  cease : 
For  who  will  court  danger,  and  hazard  his  life,  when, 

grown  rich,  he  may  live  at  his  ease? 
Thus  each  for  himself  will  be  forced  to  turn  plowman, 

to  dig  and  to  delve  and  to  sweat; 
Wearing  out  an  existence  more  grievous  by  far  than  he 

ever  experienced  yet. 
Chremylus: — Cm-ses  on  you! 
Poverty: — You'll  not  have  a  bed  to  lie  down  on — no 

goods  of  the  sort  will  be  seen! 
Not  a  carpet  to  tread  on — for  who,  pray,  will  weave 

one,  when  well  stock'd  his  coffers  have  been? 
Farewell  to  your  essences,  perfiunes,  pastilles!     When 

you  lead  to  the  altar  your  bride 
Farewell  to  your  roseate  veil's  drooping  folds,  the  bright 

hues  of  its  glittering  pride ! 
Yet  forsooth  "to  be  rich" — say  what  is  it,  without  all 

these  gew-gaws  to  swell  the  detail? 
Now  with  me,  every  item  that  wish  can  suggest  springs 

abundant  and  never  can  fail; 
For  who,  but  myself,  urges  on  to  his  toil,  like  a  mistress, 

and  drives  the  mechanic? 
If  he  flags,  I  but  show  him  my  face  at  the  door,  and  he 

hies  to  his  work  in  a  panic ! 
Chremylus: — Pshaw!      What  good  can  you  bring  but 

sores,  blisters  and  blains,  on  the  wretch  as  he 

shivering  goes 
From  the  baths'  genial  clime  driv'n  forth  to  the  cold, 

at  the  certain  expense  of  his  toes? 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  44^ 

What,   but  poor  little  urchins,   whose  stomachs  are 

craving,  and  little  old  beldames  in  shoals; 
And  lice  by  the  thousand,  mosquitoes  and  flies?      (I 

can't  count  you  the  cloud  as  it  rolls !) 
Which  keep  humming  and  buzzing  about  one,  a  language 

denying  the  respite  of  sleep, 
In  a  strain  thus  consoling — ^"Poor  starveling,  awake, 

tho  to  hunger!" — yet  up  you  must  leap! 
Add  to  this,  that  you  treat  us  with  rags  to  our  backs 

and  a  bundle  of  straw  for  a  bed 
(Woe  betide  the  poor  wretch  on  whose  carcass  the  bugs 

of  that  ravenous  pallet  have  fed!) 
For  a  carpet,  a  rotten  old  mat — for  a  pillow,  a  great 

stone  picked  out  of  the  street — 
And  for  porridge,  or  bread,  a  mere  leaf  of  radish,  or 

stem  of  a  mallow,  to  eat. 
The  head  that  remains  of  some  wreck  of  a  pitcher,  by 

way  of  a  seat  you  provide; 
For  the  trough  we  make  use  of  in  kneading,  we're  driven 

to  shift  with  a  wine  barrel's  side, — 
nd  this,  too,  all  broken  and  split: — in  a  word,  your 

magnificent  gifts  to  conclude, 
(Ironically)    To   mankind   you   indeed   are   a   blessed 

dispenser  of  mighty  and  manifold  good!  .  .  . 
On  my  word,  dame,  your  fav'rites  are  happily  off,  after 

striving  and  toiling  to  save,. 
If  at  last  they  are  able  to  levy  enough  to  procure  them 

a  cheque  to  the  grave! 


446  The    Cry   for    Justice 

'H^t  £ato)?cr  and  tfie  iFarmtt 

(Eg3T)tian;  B.C.  1400,  or  earlier.     A  letter  from  a  father  to  his  son, 
exhorting  him  to  stick  to  the  study  of  his  profession) 

T  T  is  told  to  me  that  thou  hast  cast  aside  learning,  and 
■'■  givest  thyself  to  dancing;  thou  turnest  thy  face  to 
the  work  in  the  fields,  and  castest  the  divine  words  behind 
thee. 

Behold,  thou  rememberest  not  the  condition  of  the 
fellah  (farmer)  when  the  harvest  is  taken  over.  The 
worms  carry  off  half  the  corn,  and  the  hippopotamus 
devours  the  rest;  mice  abound  in  the  fields,  and  locusts 
arrivej  the  cattle  devour,  the  sparrows  steal.  How 
miserable  is  the  lot  of  the  fellah!  What  remains  on  the 
threshing-floor,  robbers  finish  it  up.  The  bronze  .  .  . 
are  worn  out,  the  horses  die  with  threshing  and  plowing. 
Then  the  scribe  (lawyer)  moors  at  the  bank,  who  is  to 
take  over  the  harvest  for  the  goveriunent;  the  attendants 
bear  staves,  the  negroes  carry  palm  sticks.  They  say, 
"Give  corn!"  But  there  is  none.  They  beat  the  fellah 
prostrate;  they  bind  him  and  cast  him  into  the  canal, 
throwing  him  headlong.  His  wife  is  bound  before  him, 
his  children  are  swung  off;  his  neighbors  let  them  go,  and 
flee  to  look  after  their  corn. 

But  the  scribe  is  the  leader  of  labor  for  all;  he  reckons 
to  himself  the  produce  in  winter,  and  there  is  none  that 
appoints  him  his  tale  of  produce.  Behold,  now  thou 
knowest! 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  44'^ 

JFarmer  anii  Eatoger  asain 

{From  "The  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman") 
By  William  Langland 

(One  of  the  earliest  of  English  social  protests,  a  picture  of  the  misery 
of  the  workers  of  the  fourteenth  century) 

Come  were  for  ploughing,  and  played  full  seldom, 
^  Set  their  seed  and  sowed  their  seed  and  sweated  hard, 
To  win  what  wastrels  with  gluttony  destroy.  .  .  . 
There  wandered  a  hundred  in  hoods  of  silk, 
Serjeants  they  seemed,  and  served  at  the  Bar, 
Pleading  the  Law  for  pennies  and  for  pounds, 
Unlocking  their  lips  never  for  love  of  our  Lord. 
Thou  mightest  better  mete  the  mist  on  Malvern  hills 
Than  get  a  mutter  from  their  mouths — save  thou  show 
thy  money! 


%lt  affftator 

By  Isaiah 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.C.  740) 

T^OR  Zion's  sake  will  I  not  hold  my  peace, 
^      And  for  Jerusalem's  sake  will  I  not  rest, 
Until  the  righteousness  thereof  go  forth  as  brightness, 
And  the  salvation  thereof  as  a  lamp  that  burneth. 
Upon  thy  walls,  0  Jerusalem,  have  I  set  watchmen. 
Who  shall  never  hold  their  peace,  day  and  night. 
Go  through,  go  through  the  gates; 
Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  people! 
Lift  up  a  standard  to  the  peoples! 


Ji48  The    Cry   for    Justice 

%^t  Sl^uckrafecr  in  ^et&ia 

By  Nizami 
(Persian  poet,  A.D.  1200) 

I  ^HEUE  was  a  king  who  oppressed  his  subjects.  An 
-*•  informer  came  to  him,  and  said,  "A  certain  old  man 
has  in  private  called  thee  a  tyrant,  a  disturber,  and  blood- 
thirsty." The  king,  enraged,  said,  "Even  n-.w  I  put  him 
to  death."  While  the  king  made  preparations  for  the 
execution,  a  youth  ran  to  the  old  man,  and  said,  "The 
king  is  ill-disposed  to  thee;  hasten  to  assuage  his  wrath." 
The  sage  performed  his  ablutions,  took  his  shroud,  and 
went  to  the  king.  The  tyrant,  seeing  him,  clapped  his 
hands  together,  and  with  eye  hungry  for  revenge,  cried, 
"I  hear  thou  hast  given  loose  to  thy  speech;  thou  hast 
called  me  revengeful,  an  oppressive  demon."  The  sage 
replied,  "I  have  said  worse  of  thee  than  what  thou  re- 
peatest.  Old  and  young  are  in  peril  from  thy  action; 
town  and  village  are  injured  by  thy  ministry.  Apply  thy 
understanding,  and  see  if  it  be  true;  if  it  be  not,  slay  me 
on  a  gibbet.  I  am  holding  a  mirror  before  thee;  when  it 
shows  thy  blemishes  truly,  it  is  a  folly  to  break  the 
mirror.     Break  thyself!" 

The  king  saw  the  rectitude  of  the  sage,  and  his  own 
crookedness.  He  said,  "Remove  his  burial  spices,  and 
his  shroud;  bring  to  him  sweet  perfumes,  and  the  robe 
of  honor."  He  became  a  just  prince,  cherishing  his 
subjects.  Bringforwardthy  rough  truth;  truth  from  thee 
is  victory;  it  shall  shine  as  a  pearl. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  449 

By  Jeremiah 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.C.  630) 

■  ("OR  among  my  people  are  found  wicked  men;  they 
■^  lay  wait,  as  he  that  setteth  snares;  they  set  a  trap, 
they  catch  men.  As  a  cage  is  full  of  birds,  so  are  their 
houses  full  of  deceit;  therefore  they  are  become  great, 
and  waxen  rich.  They  are  waxen  fat,  they  shine;  yea, 
they  overpass  the  deeds  of  the  wicked;  they  judge  not  the 
cause,  the  cause  of  the  fatherless,  yet  they  prosper;  and 
the  right  of  the  needy  do  they  not  judge.  Shall  I  not  visit 
them  for  these  things?  saith  the  Lord;  shall  not  my  soul 
be  avenged  on  such  a  nation  as  this?  A  wonderful  and 
horrible  thing  is  committed  in  the  land;  the  prophets 
prophesy  falsely,  and  the  priests  bear  rule  by  their  means; 
and  my  people  love  to  have  it  so;  and  what  will  ye  do  in 
the  end  thereof? 


(3tatttt&  in  atSen0 

{From  "The  Frogs") 

By  Aristophanes 

(Greek  comedy,  produced  B.C.  405) 

TV^EEP  silence — keep  peace — and  let  all  the  profane 
-^  ^    From  our  holy  solemnity  duly  refrain; 
Whose  souls  unenlightened  by  taste,  are  obscure; 
Whose  poetical  notions  are  dark  and  impure; 

Whose  theatrical  conscience 

Is  sullied  by  nonsense; 

29 


450  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Who  never  were  train'd  by  the  mighty  Cratinus 

In  mystical  orgies  poetic  and  vinous; 

Who  delight  in  buffooning  and  jests  out  of  season; 

Who  promote  the  designs  of  oppression  and  treason; 

Who  foster  sedition,  and  strife,  and  debate; 

All  traitors,  in  short,  to  the  stage  and  the  state; 

Who  surrender  a  fort,  or  in  private,  export 

To  places  and  harbors  of  hostile  resort. 

Clandestine  consignments  of  cables  and  pitch; 

In  the  way  the  Thorycion  grew  to  be  rich 

From  a  scoundrelly  dirty  collector  of  tribute ! 

All  such  we  reject  and  severely  prohibit: 

All  statesmen  retrenching  the  fees  and  the  salaries 

Of  theatrical  bards,  in  revenge  for  the  railleries. 

And  jests,  and  lampoons,  of  this  holy  solenmity, 

Profanely  pm^suing  their  personal  enmity. 

For  having  been  flouted,  and  scoff'd,  and  scorn'd, 

All  such  are  admonish'd  and  heartily  warn'd! 

We  warn  them  once, 

We  warn  them  twice, 

We  warn  and  admonish — ^we  warn  them  thrice, 
To  conform  to  the  law, 
To  retire  and  withdraw — 
While  the  Chorus  again  with  the  formal  saw 
(Fixt  and  assigh'd  to  the  festive  day) 
Move  to  the  measure  and  march  away! 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  451 

^utt  jFootr  agitation 

By  Martin  Luther 
(German  religious  reformer,  1483-1564) 

'  I  "HEY  have  learned  the  trick  of  placing  such  conunodi- 
■l-  ties  as  pepper,  ginger,  saffron,  in  damp  vaults  or 
cellars  in  order  to  increase  the  weight.  .  .  .  Nor  is  there 
a  single  article  of  trade  whatever  out  of  which  they 
cannot  make  unfair  profit  by  false  measuring,  counting 
or  weighing.  They  produce  artificial  colors,  or  they  put 
the  pretty  things  at  the  top  and  bottom  and  the  ugly 
ones  in  the  middle;  and  indeed  there  is  no  end  to  their 
trickery,  and  no  one  tradesman  will  trust  another,  for 
they  know  each  other's  ways. 


^all  gitmt 

By  Habakkuk 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.C.  600) 

'  I  "HEY  take  up  all  of  them  with  the  angle,  they  catch 
^  them  in  their  net,  and  gather  them  in  their  drag; 
therefore  they  sacrifice  unto  their  nets,  and  bum  incense 
unto  their  drags;  because  by  them  their  portion  is  fat, 
and  their  meat  plenteous. 


By  Martial 
(Latin  poet,  A.D.  43-104) 

T  F  you  are  a  poor  man  now,  Aemihanus,  a  poor  man 
■^  you  will  always  be.  Nowadays,  riches  are  bestowed 
on  no  one  but  the  rich. 


452  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Cato,  the  Censoh 
(Latin,  B.C.  234r-149) 

SMALL   thieves    lie    in    towers    fastened    to    wooden 
blocks;  big  ones  strut  about  in  gold  and  silver. 


?9ro0pftitg 

(From  the  Book  of  Job) 
(Hebrew,  B.C.  Fourth  Century) 

THOU  hast  taken  pledges  of  thy  brother  for  nought, 
and  stripped  the  naked  of  their  clothing.  Thou  hast 
not  given  water  to  the  weary  to  drink,  and  thou  hast 
withholden  bread  from  the  hungry.  But  as  for  the  mighty 
man,  he  had  the  earth;  and  the  honourable  man,  he  dwelt 
in  it.  Thou  hast  sent  widows  away  empty,  and  the  arms 
of  the  fatherless  have  been  broken. 


%^z  Eeatrfno;  Citijtn 

By  Horace 
(Latin  poet,  B.C.  65-8.     Translation  by  John  Milton) 

AT  ynOM  do  we  count  a  good  man?    Whom  but  he 
^  '     Who  keeps  the  laws  and  statutes  of  the  senate, 
Who  judges  in  great  suits  and  controversies, 
Whose  witness  and  opinion  wins  the  cause? 
But  his  own  house,  and  the  whole  neighborhood, 
Sees  his  foul  inside  through  his  whited  skin. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  453 

By  Im  Bang 

(Korean  poet,  1640-1722) 

'  I  ""HE  next  hell  had  inscribed  on  it,  "Deceivers."  I  saw 
^  in  it  many  scores  of  people,  with  ogres  that  cut  the 
flesh  from  their  bodies,  and  fed  it  to  starving  demons. 
These  ate  and  ate,  and  the  flesh  was  cut  and  cut  till  only 
the  bones  remained.  When  the  winds  of  hell  blew, 
then  flesh  returned  to  them;  then  metal  snakes  and  copper 
dogs  crowded  in  to  bite  them  and  suck  their  blood.  Their 
screams  of  pain  made  the  earth  to  tremble.  The  guides 
said  to  me,  "When  these  offenders  were  on  earth  they  held 
high  office,  and  while  they 'pretended  to  be  true  and  good 
they  received  bribes  in  secret  and  were  doers  of  all  evil. 
As  Ministers  of  State  they  ate  the  fat  of  the  land  and 
sucked  the  blood  of  the  people,  and  yet  advertised  them- 
selves as  benefactors  and  were  highly  applauded.  While 
in  reality  they  lived  as  thieves,  they  pretended  to  be 
holy,  as  Confucius  and  Mencius  were  holy.  They  were 
deceivers  of  the  world,  and  robbers,  and  so  are  punished 
thus."  

By  Martin  Liither 

(A  picture  of  the  conditions  which  brought  on  the  Peasants'  War 
in  Germany,  1525) 

BEFORE  all,  if  the  princes  and  lords  wish  to  fulfill  the 
duties  of  their  office  they  must  prohibit  and  banish 
the  vicious  system  of  monopolies,  which  is  altogether  unen- 
durable in  town  or  country.    As  for  the  trading  companies. 


JjBJj.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

they  are  thoroughly  corrupt  and  made  up  of  great  injus- 
tices. They  have  every  sort  of  commodity  in  their  own 
power  and  they  do  with  them  just  as  they  please,  raise 
or  lower  the  prices  at  their  own  convenience  and  crush 
and  ruin  all  the  small  shop  people — just  as  the  pike  does 
with  the  small  fish  in  the  water — as  if  they  were  lords  over 
God's  creatures  and  exempt  from  all  laws  of  authority 
and  religion.  .  .  .  How  can  it  be  godly  and  just  that  in 
so  short  a  time  a  man  should  grow  so  rich  that  he  can 
outbid  kings  and  emperors?  They  have  brought  things 
to  such  a  pass  that  all  the  rest  of  the  world  must  carry 
on  business  with  risk  and  damage,  gaining  today,  losing 
tomorrow,  while  they  continually  grow  richer  and  richer, 
and  make  up  for  their  losses  by  higher  profits;  so  it  is 
no  wonder  that  they  are  appropriating  to  themselves  the 
riches  of  the  whole  world. 


SnUmptrate  &pefc8 

{From  the  Epistle  of  James) 
(A.D.  100  to  120) 

GO  to  now,  ye  rich  men,  weep  and  howl  for  your 
miseries  that  shall  come  upon  you.  Your  riches 
are  corrupted,  and  your  garments  are  moth-eaten.  Your 
gold  and  silver  are  cankered;  and  the  rust  of  them  shall 
be  a  witness  against  you,  and  shall  eat  your  flesh  as  it 
were  fire.  Ye  have  heaped  treasures  together  for  the  last 
days.  Behold,  the  hire  of  the  laborers  who  have  reaped 
down  your  fields,  which  is  of  you  kept  back  by  fraud, 
crieth:  and  the  cries  of  them  which  have  reaped  are 
entered  into  the  ears  of  the  Lord  of  Sabaoth.     Ye  have 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  4^5 

lived  in  pleasure  on  the  earth,  and  been  wanton;  ye  have 
nourished  your  hearts,  as  in  a  day  of  slaughter.  Ye  have 
condemned  and  killed  the  just:  and  he  doth  not  resist 
you.  Be  patient,  therefore,  brethren,  unto  the  coining  of 
the  Lord.  Behold,  the  husbandman  waiteth  for  the. 
precious  fruit  of  the  earth,  and  hath  long  patience  for  it, 
until  he  receive  the  early  and  latter  rain.  Be  ye  also 
patient;  stablish  your  hearts;  for  the  coming  of  the  Lord 
drawcth  nigh. 


By  Marcus  Aueelius 
(Roman  emperor  and  philosopher,  A.D.  121-180) 

AND  these  your  professed  pohticians,  the  only  true 
*•  practical  philosophers  of  the  world  (as  they  think 
themselves)  so  full  of  affected  gravity,  or  such  professed 
lovers  of  virtue  and  honesty,  what  wretches  be  they  in 
very  deed;  how  vile  and  contemptible  in  themselves! 
O  man,  what  ado  dost  thou  make! 


a^urdft  ftp  &tatutt 

{From  "  The  Sayings  of  Mencius") 
(Chinese  classic,  B.C.  300) 

KING  HWUY  of  Leang  said,  "I  wish  quietly  to  receive 
your  instructions.  Mencius  replied,  "Is  there  any 
difference  between  killing  a  man  with  a  stick,  and  with  a 
sword?"     "There  is  not,"  was  the  answer. 


1^56  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Mencius  continued,  "Is  there  any  difference  between 
doing  it  with  a  sword  and  with  government  measures?" 
"There  is  not,"  was  the  answer  again. 

Mencius  then  said,  "In  your  stalls  there  are  fat  beasts; 
in  your  stables  there  are  fat  horses.  But  your  people 
have  the  look  of  hunger,  and  in  the  fields  are  those  who 
have  died  of  famine.  This  is  leading  on  beasts  to  devour 
men.  Beasts  devour  one  another,  and  men  hate  them  for 
doing  so.  When  he  who  is  called  the  parent  of  the  people 
conducts  his  government  so  as  to  be  chargeable  with 
leading  on  beasts  to  devour  men,  where  is  that  parental 
relation  to  the  people?" 


Hcbukinfi:  a  '^Egrant 

By  Sadi 
(Persian  poet,  A.D.  1200) 

TN  a  certain  year  I  was  sitting  retired  in  the  great 
■'-  mosque  at  Damascus,  at  the  head  of  the  tomb  of 
Yahiya  the  prophet  (on  whom  be  peace!).  One  of  the 
kings  of  Arabia,  who  was  notorious  for  his  injustice, 
happened  to  come  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  having  performed 
his  devotions,  he  uttered  the  following  words:  "The  poor 
and  the  rich  are  servants  of  this  earth,  and  those  who  are 
richest  have  the  greatest  wants."  He  then  looked  towards 
me,  and  said,  "Because  dervishes  are  strenuous  and  sin- 
cere in  their  commerce  with  heaven,  unite  your  prayers 
with  mine,  for  I  am  in  dread  of  a  powerful  enemy." 

I  replied,  "Show  mercy  to  the  weak  peasant,  that  you 
may  not  experience  difiiculty  from  a  strong  enemy. 
It  is  criminal  to  crush  the  poor  and  defenceless  subjects 


The    Voice    of   the    Ages  457 

mth  the  arm  of  power.  He  liveth  in  dread  who  befriendeth 
not  the  poor;  for  should  his  foot  slip,  no  one  layeth  hold 
of  his  hand.  Whosoever  soweth  bad  seed,  and  looketh 
for  good  fruit,  tortureth  his  imagination  iu  vain,  making 
a  false  judgment  of  things.  Take  the  cotton  out  of  thine 
ear,  and  distribute  justice  to  mankind;  for  if  thou  refusest 
justice,  there  will  be  a  day  of  retribution. 

"The  children  of  Adam  are  limbs  of  one  another,  and 
are  all  produced  from  the  same  substance;  when  the  world 
gives  pain  to  one  member,  the  others  also  suffer  uneasiness. 
Thou  who  art  indifferent  to  the  sufferings  of  others  de- 
servest  not  to  be  called  a  man." 


%lt  (Kloqutnt  peasant 

(Egyptian,  B.C.  2000  or  earlier) 

An  interesting  primitive  protest  against  injustice  is  the 
-^^-  story  of  the  Eloquent  Peasant,  which  was  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  ancient  Egyptian  tales,  and  is  found  in 
scores  of  different  papyri.  The  story  narrates  how  a 
peasant  named  Rensi  was  robbed  of  his  asses  by  the 
henchmen  of  a  certain  grand  steward.  In  spite  of  all 
threats  the  peasant  persisted  in  appealing  against  the 
robber  to  the  grand  steward  himself.  The  scene  is  de- 
scribed in  "Social  Forces  and  Religion  in  Ancient  Egypt," 
by  James  Henry  Breasted,  as  follows : 

"It  is  a  tableau  which  epitomizes  ages  of  social  history 
in  the  East:  on  the  one  hand,  the  brilliant  group  of  the 
great  man's  sleek  and  subservient  suite,  the  universal 
type  of  the  official  class;  and,  on  the  other,  the  friendless 
and  forlorn  figure  of  the  despoiled  peasant,  the  pathetic 
personification  of  the  cry  for  social  justice.     This  scene 


458  The    Cry   for    Justice 

is  one  of  the  earliest  examples  of  that  Oriental  skill  in 
setting  forth  abstract  principles,  so  wonderfully  illustrated 
later  in  the  parables  of  Jesus.  Seeing  that  the  grand 
steward  makes  no  reply,  the  peasant  makes  another 
effort  to  save  his  family  and  himself  from  the  starvation 
which  threatens  them.  He  steps  forward  and  with 
amazing  eloquence  addresses  the  great  man  in  whose 
hands  his  case  now  rests,  promising  him  a  fair  voyage  as 
he  embarks  on  the  canal,  and  voicing  the  fame  of  the 
grand  steward's  benevolence,  on  which  he  had  reckoned. 
'For  thou  art  the  father  of  the  orphan,  the  husband  of 
the  widow,  the  brother  of  the  forsaken,  the  kilt  of  the 
motherless.  Let  me  put  -thy  name  in  this  land  above 
every  good  law,  0  leader  free  from  avarice,  great  man  free 
from  littleness,  who  destroys  falsehood  and  brings  about 
truth.  Respond  to  the  cry  which  my  mouth  utters; 
when  I  speak,  hear  thou.  Do  justice,  thou  who  art 
praised,  whom  the  praised  praise.  Relieve  my  misery. 
Behold  me,  I  am  heavy  laden;  prove  me,  lo  I  am  in 
sorrow.' " 

To  follow  the  account  of  the  incident  in  other  records, 
the  grand  steward  is  so  much  pleased  with  the  peasant's 
eloquence  that  he  goes  to  the  king  and  tells  him  about  it. 
"My  Lord,  I  have  foimd  one  of  these  peasants,  excellent 
of  speech,  in  very  truth;  stolen  are  his  goods,  and  he  has 
come  to  complain  to  me  of  the  matter." 

His  majesty  says,  "As  thou  wishest  that  I  may  see 
health,  lengthen  out  his  complaint,  without  reply  to  any 
of  his  speeches !  He  who  desireth  him  to  continue  speaking 
should  be  silent;  behold,  bring  us  his  words  in  writing 
that  we  may  listen  to  them." 

So  he  keeps  the  peasant  pleading  for  many  days.  The 
story  quotes  nine  separate  speeches,  of  constantly  increas- 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  459 

ing  bitterness  and  pathos.  The  peasant  is  beaten  by  the 
servants  of  the  grand  steward,  but  still  he  comes.  "Thou 
art  appointed  to  hear  causes,  to  judge  two  litigants,  to 
ward  off  the  robber.  But  thou  makest  common  cause 
with  the  thief.  .  .  .  Thou  art  instructed,  thou  art 
educated,  thou  art  taught — but  not  for  robbery.  Thou 
art  accustomed  to  do  like  all  men,  and  thy  kin  are  likewise 
ensnared.  Thou  the  rectitude  of  all  men,  art  the  chief 
transgressor  of  the  whole  land.  The  gardener  of  evil 
waters  his  domain  with  iniquity  that  his  domain  may 
bring  forth  falsehood,  in  order  to  flood  the  estate  with 
wickedness." 

In  spite  of  his  eloquence,  the  grand  steward  remains 
unmoved.  The  peasant  appeals  to  the  gods  of  Justice; 
and  in  the  ninth  address  he  threatens  to  make  his  plea 
to  the  god  Anubis,  who  is  the  god  of  the  dead — meaning 
thereby  that  he  will  commit-  suicide.  None  of  the  extant 
papyri  informs  us  as  to  the  outcome  of  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings. 


Pra^ftief  Qfllttj^ont  ^n&'tott 

{From  The  Iliad) 

By  Homer 

(Greek  epic  poet,  B.C.  700?) 

T^RAYERS  are  Jove's  daughters  of  celestial  race, 
■»-        Lame  are  their  feet,  and  wrinkled  is  their  face; 
With  homely  mien  and  with  dejected  eyes, 
Constant  they  follow  where  injustice  flies. 
Injustice,  suave,  erect,  and  imconflned. 
Sweeps  the  wide  earth,  and  tramples  o'er  mankind — 
While  prayers  to  heal  her  wrongs  move  slow  behind. 


460  The    Cry   for    Justice 

'dlit  buffering  ot  momm 

By  Herbert  Spencer 
(English  philosopher,  1820-1903) 

T  N  the  history  of  humanity  as  written,  the  saddest  part 
■'■  concerns  the  treatment  of  women;  and  had  we  before 
us  its  unwritten  history  we  should  find  this  part  still 
sadder.  I  say  the  saddest  part  because  there  have  been 
many  things  more  conspicuously  dreadful — cannibalism, 
the  torturing  of  prisoners,  the  sacrifice  of  victims  to  ghosts 
and  gods— these  have  been  but  occasionally;  whereas 
the  brutal  treatment  of  woman  has  been  universal  and 
constant.  If  looking  first  at  their  state  of  subjection 
among  the  semi-civilized  we  pass  to  the  uncivihzed,  and 
observe  the  lives  of  hardship  borne  by  nearly  all  of  them; 
if  we  then  think  what  must  have  gone  on  among  those 
still  ruder  peoples  who,  for  so  many  thousands  of  years 
roamed  over  the  uncultivated  earth;  we  shall  infer  that 
the  amount  of  suffering  which  has  been  and  is  borne  by 
women  is  utterly  beyoijd  imagination. 


Dtborce  in  SLncitnt  Babylon 

{From  the  Code  of  Hammurabi) 
(B.C.  2250) 

ANU  and  Baal  called  me,  Hammurabi,  the  exalted 
•^*-  prince,  the  worshipper  of  the  gods,  to  cause  justice 
to  prevail  in  the  land,  to  destroy  the  wicked  and  evil, 
to  prevent  the  strong  from  oppressing  the  weak,  to 
enlighten  the  land  and  to  further  the  welfare  of  the  people. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  461 

Hammurabi,  the  governor  named  by  Baal  am  I,  who 
brought  about  plenty  and  abundance. 

§  142:  If  a  woman  shall  hate  her  husband  and  say: 
"Thou  shalt  not  have  me,"  they  shall  inquire  into  her 
antecedents  for  her  defects.  ...  If  she  have  not  been  a 
careful  mistress,  have  gadded  about,  have  neglected  her 
house  and  have  belittled  her  husband,  they  shall  throw 
that  woman  into  the  water. 


W^t  ^atablt  ot  tfie  ^feungtp  2D0S 

{From  the  Gospel  of  Buddha) 
(Hindu  Bible,  B.C.  600) 

I  "HERE  was  a  wicked  tyrant;  and  the  god  Indra, 
^  assuming  the  shape  of  a  hunter,  came  down  upon 
earth  with  the  demon  Matali,  the  latter  appearing  as  a 
dog  of  enormous  size.  Hunter  and  dog  entered  the  palace, 
and  the  dog  howled  so  woefully  that  the  royal  buildings 
shook  with  the  soimd  to  their  very  foundations.  The 
tyrant  had  the  awe-inspiring  hunter  brought  before  his 
throne  and  inquired  after  the  cause  of  the  terrible  bark. 
The  hrniter  said,  "The  dog  is  hungry,"  whereupon  the 
frightened  king  ordered  food  for  him.  All  the  food  pre- 
pared at  the  royal  banquet  disappeared  rapidly  in  the  dog's 
jaws,  and  still  he  howled  with  portentous  significance. 
More  food  was  sent  for,  and  all  the  royal  store-houses 
were  emptied,  but  in  vain.  Then  the  tyrant  grew  des- 
perate and  asked:  "Will  nothing  satisfy  the  cravings  of 
that  woeful  beast?"  "Nothing,"  replied  the  hunter, 
"nothing  except  perhaps  the  flesh  of  all  his  enemies." 
"And  who  are  his  enemies?"  anxiously  asked  the  tyrant. 
The  hunter  replied:   "The  dog  will  howl  as  long  as  there 


JfB^  The    Cry   for    Justice 

are  people  hungry  in  the  kingdom,  and  his  enemies  are 
those  that  practice  injustice  and  oppress  the  poor."  The 
oppressor  of  the  people,  remembering  his  evil  deeds,  was 
seized  with  remorse,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
began  to  listen  to  the  teachings  of  righteousness. 


'arfie  iRaturr  of  HmffiS 

{From  the  First  Book  of  Samuel) 
(Hebrew,  B.C.   Eleventh  Century) 

AND  Samuel  told  all  the  words  of  the  Lord  unto  the 
•  people  that  asked  of  him  a  king.  And  he  said: 
"  This  will  be  the  manner  of  the  king  that  shall  reign  over 
you;  he  will  take  your  sons,  and  appoint  them  for  him- 
self, for  his  chariots,  and  to  be  his  horsemen;  and  some 
shall  run  before  his  chariots.^  And  he  will  appoint  him 
captains  over  thousands,  and  captains  over  fifties;  and 
will  set  them  to  ear  his  ground,  and  to  reap  his  harvest, 
and  to  make  his  instruments  of  war,  and  ihstrmnents  of 
his  chariots.  And  he  will  take  your  daughters  to  be 
confectionaries,  and  to  be  cooks,  and  to  be  bakers.  And 
he  will  take  your  fields,  and  your  vineyards,  and  your 
oliveyards,  even  the  best  of  them,  and  give  them  to  his 
servants.  And  he  will  take  the  tenth  of  your  seed,  and 
of  your  vineyards,  and  give  to  his  officers,  and  to  his 
servants.  And  he  will  take  your  menservants,  and  your 
maidservants,  and  yom*  goodliest  yoxmg  men,  and  your 
asses,  and  put  them  to  his  work.  He  Avill  take  the  tenth 
of  your  sheep;  and  ye  shall  be  his  servants.  And  ye  shall 
cry  out  in  that  day  because  of  your  king  which  ye  shall 
have  chosen  you;  and  the  Lord  will  not  hear  you  in  that 
day." 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  463 

{From  the  She-ching) 
(Chinese  classic,  B.C.  1000) 

A    FISH  in  some  translucent  lake 
■'*■  Must  ever  live  to  fear  a  prey 
He  cannot  hide  himself  away 
From  those  who  come  the  fish  to  take. 
I,  too,  may  not  escape  the  eyes 
Of  those  who  cause  these  miseries; 
My  sorrowing  heart  must  grieve  to  know 
My  country's  deep  distress  and  woe. 


{From  the  Edda) 

(Scandinavian  legends  of  great  antiquity,  collected,  A.D.  1100,  by 
Saemund) 

KING  FROTHI  called  his  slaves  renowned  for  strength, 
Fenia  and  Menia,  and  bade  them  grind  for  gold. 
The  maidens  ground  through  many  years,  they  ground 
endless  treasures;  but  at  last  they  grew  weary.  Then 
Frothi  said,  "Grind  on!  Rest  ye  not,  sleep  ye  not,  longer 
than  the  cuckoo  is  silent,  or  a  verse  can  be  sung."  The 
weary  slaves  ground  on,  till  lo!  from  the  mighty  mill  is 
poured  forth  an  army  of  men.  Now  hes  Frothi  slain 
amid  his  gold.    Now  is  Frothi's  peace  forever  ended. 


Ifilf.  Tine    Cry   for    Justice 

((l^t  ^a'tatt  of  3lu0tic£ 

By  Manu 
(Hindu  poet,  B.C.  1200  ) 

INIQUITY,  committed  in  this  world,  produces  not 
fruit  immediately,  but,  like  the  earth,  in  due  season, 
and  advancing  by  little  and  little,  it  eradicates  the  man 
who  committed  it. 

He  grows  rich  for  a  while  through  unrighteousness; 
then  he  beholds  good  things;  then  it  is  that  he  vanquishes 
his  foes;  but  he  perishes  at  length  from  his  whole  root 
upwards. 

Justice,  being  destroyed,  will  destroy;  being  preserved, 
will  preserve;  it  must  never  therefore  be  violated.  Be- 
ware, 0  judge!  lest  justice,  being  overturned,  overturn 
both  us  and  thyself. 


By  Isaiah 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.C.  740) 

WOE  unto  them  that  decree  unrighteous  decrees,  and 
that  write  grievousness  which  they  have  prescribed; 
to  turn  aside  the  needy  from  judgment,  and  to  take  away 
the  right  from  the  poor  of  my  people,  that  widows  may  be 
their  prey,  and  that  they  may  rob  the  fatherless!  And 
what  will  ye  do  in  the  day  of  visitation,  and  in  the  desola- 
tion which  shall  come  from  far?  to  whom  will  ye  flee  for 
help?  and  where  will  ye  leave  your  glory?  Without  me 
they  shall  bow  down  under  the  prisoners,  and  they  shall 
fall  under  the  slain.  For  all  this  his  anger  is  not  turned 
awav,  but  his  hand  is  stretched  out  still. 


THE   SEA   OF   BLOOD 
''CouKAGE,  Your  Majesty,  only  one  step  more" 
(Example  of  Russian  cartoonitig,  pnlilidied  at  the  height  of  the 
Revolution  of  1905) 


The    Voice    of   the    Ages  465 

€omtvnins  HfllealtS 

Hesiod 

(Greek  poet,  B.C.  650) 

"\^  ynO,  or  by  open  force,  or  secret  stealth, 
^^       Or  perjured  wiles,  amasses  wealth, 
(Such  many  are,  whom  thirst  of  gain  betrays) 
The  gods,,  all  seeing,  shall  o'ercloud  his  days; 
His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends  shall  die. 
And,  like  a  dream,  his  ill-got  riches  fly. 

(From  the  Instructions  of  Ptah-Hotep) 
(Egyptian,  B.C.  3650;  the  oldest  book  in  the  world) 

IF  thou  be  great,  after  being  of  no  account,  and  hast 
gotten  riches  after  squalor,  being  foremost  in  these  in 
the  city,  and  hast  knowledge  concerning  useful  matters, 
so  that  promotion  is  come  unto  thee;  then  swathe  not 
thine  heart  in  thine  hoard,  for  thou  art  become  a  steward 
of  the  endowment  of  the  God.  Thou  art  not  the  last, 
others  shall  be  thine  equal,  and  to  them  shall  come  what 
has  come  to  thee. 

(From  the  Icelandic,  Eleventh  Century) 

T  SAW  the  well-filled  bams 

•*■   Of  the  child  of  wealth; 
Now  leans  he  on  the  staff  of  the  beggar. 
Thus  are  riches, 
As  the  glance  of  an  eye, 
They  are  an  inconstant  friend. 

30 


466  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  VmaiL 
(Latin  epic  poet,  B.C.  70-19) 

/^^URST  greed  of  gold,  what  crimes  thy  tyrant  power 
^^  has  caused! 

{From  the  "Antigone"  of  Sophocles) 
(Greek  tragic  poet,  B.C.  440) 

TV  To  such  ill  device 

^  ^     Ever  appeared,  as  money  to  mankind: 

This  is  it  that  sacks  cities,  this  routs  out 

Men  from  their  homes,  and  trains  and  turns  astray 

The  minds  of  honest  mortals,  setting  them  j 

Upon  base  actions;  this  revealed  to  men 

Habits  of  all  misdoing,  and  cognizance 

Of  every  work  of  wickedness. 

(From  the  Book  of  Good  Counsels) 
(Sanscrit,  B.C.  300) 

AT  Health  is  friends,  home,  father,  brother,  title  to 

'  "      respect,  and  fame; 
Yea,  and  wealth  is  held  for  wisdom — that  it  should  be  so  is 
shame. 

{From  the  "Medea"  of  Euripides) 
(Greek  tragic  poet,  B.C.  431) 

OPEAK  not  so  hastily:  the  gods  themselves 
!  ^    By  gifts  are  swayed,  as  fame  relates;  and  gold 
I  Hath  a  far  greater  influence  o'er  the  souls 

Of  mortals  than  the  most  persuasive  words. 


The    Voice    of   the    Ages  467 

{From  "The  Convivio"  of  Dante  Alighieri) 
(Italian  epic  poet,  1265-1321) 

T  AFFIRM  that  gain  is  precisely  that  whicli  comes  oftener 
■'■  to  the  bad  than  to  the  good;  for  illegitimate  gains 
never  come  to  the  good  at  all,  because  they  reject  them. 
And  lawful  gains  rarely  come  to  the  good,  because,  since 
much  anxious  care  is  needful  thereto,  and  the  anxious 
care  of  the  good  man  is  directed  to  weightier  matters, 
rarely  does  the  good  man  give  sufficient  attention  thereto. 
Wherefore  it  is  clear  that  in  every  way  the  advent  of  these 
riches  is  iniquitous.  .  .  . 

Let  us  give  heed  to  the  life  of  them  who  chase  riches, 
and  see  in  what  security  they  live  when  they  have  gath- 
ered of  them,  how  content  they  are,  how  reposeful!  And 
what  else,  day  by  day,  imperils  and  slays  cities,  countries 
and  single  persons  so  much  as  the  new  amassing  of 
wealth  by  anyone?  Which  amassing  reveals  new  long- 
ings, the  goal  of  which  may  not  be  reached  without 
wrong  to  someone.  .  .  . 

Wherefore  the  baseness  of  riches  is  manifest  enough  by 
reason  of  all  their  characteristics,  and  so  a  man  of  right 
appetite  and  of  true  knowledge  never  loves  them;  and  not 
loving  them  does  not  unite  himself  to  them,  but  ever 
wishes  them  to  be  far  removed  from  him,  save  as  they  be 
ordained  to  some  necessary  service.  .  .  . 


468  The    Cry   for    Justice 

%^z  Prrtfct  Citp 

{From  "  The  Republic"  of  Plato) 
(Greek  philosopher,  B.C.  429-347) 

\^  7"E  have,  it  seems,  discovered  other  things,  which  our 
*  *     guardians  must  by  all  means  watch  against,  that 

they  may  nowise  escape  their  notice  and  steal  into  the 

city. 
What  kinds  of  things  are  these? 
Riches,  said  I,  and  poverty. 


B 


Concetnmg:  Sntiepctttifnce 

By  Lucretius 

(Latin  poet,  B.C.  95-52) 

UT  if  men  would  live  up  to  reason's  rules, 
They  would  not  bow  and  scrape  to  wealthy  fools. 

(From  The  Hitopadesa) 
(Hindu  religious  work,  B.C.  250) 

T  T  is  better  to  abandon  life  than  flatter  the  base.  Im- 
^  poverishment  is  better  than  luxury  through  another's 
wealth.  Not  to  attend  at  the  door  of  the  wealthy,  and 
not  to  use  the  voice  of  petition,  these  imply  the  best  life 
of  a  man. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  469 

By  Xenophon 
(Greek  historian,  B.C.  Fourth  Century) 

T  F  you  perfume  a  slave  and  a  freeman,  the  difference  of 
■*■  their  birth  produces  none  in  the  smell;  and  the  scent 
is  perceived  as  soon  in  the  one  as  the  other;  but  the  odor 
of  honorable  toil,  as  it  is  acquired  with  great  pains 
and  application,  is  ever  sweet  and  worthy  of  a  brave 
man. 

By  Dante  Alighieri 
(Itahan  epic  poet,  1265-1321) 

A"\ /"HAT!  You  say  a  horse  is  noble  because  it  is  good 
*"  in  itself,  and  the  same  you  say  of  a  falcon  or  a 
pearl;  but  a  man  shall  be  called  noble  because  his  ancestors 
were  so?  Not  with  words,  but  with  knives  must  one 
answer  such  a  beastly  notion. 

By  Omar  Khayyam 
(Persian  poet,  Eleventh  Century) 

TN  this  world  he  who  possesses  a  morsel  of  bread,  and 
■*•  some  nest  in  which  to  shelter  himself,  who  is  master 
or  slave  of  no  man,  tell  that  man  to  live  content;  he 
possesses  a  very  sweet  existence. 


47C  The    Cry   for    Justice 

flD5<  JFrwtiom 

{Negro  Slave  Song) 

OH!  Freedom,  oh!  Freedom, 
Oh!  Freedom,  over  me; 
And  before  I'll  be  a  slave 
I'll  be  buried  in  my  grave. 
And  go  home  to  my  God 
And  be  free. 


Jfwuome 

By  John  Baebour 
(English  poet,  Fourteenth  Century) 

A  I  FREDOME  is  a  nobill  thing! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haiff  liking! 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis : 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frely  levys; 
A  noble  hart  may  haiff  nane  ease, 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese, 
Gyff  fredome  failythe:  for  fre  liking 
Is  yeamyt  ow'r  all  othir  thing 
Na  he,  that  ay  hase  levyt  fre. 
May  nocht  knaw  weill  the  propyrte. 
The  angry,  na  the  wretchjrt  dome. 
That  is  cowplyt  to  foule  thyrldome. 
Bot  gyff  he  had  assayit  it. 
Than  all  perquer  he  suld  it  wyt; 
And  suld  think  fredome  mar  to  pryse 
Than  all  the  gold  in  warld  that  is. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  471 

{Ancient  Greek  Inscription) 

T^IETY  has  raised  this  house  from  the  first  foundation 
^  even  to  the  lofty  roof;  for  Macedonius  fashioned  not 
his  wealth  by  heaping  up  from  the  possessions  of  others 
with  plundering  sword,  nor  has  any  poor  man  here  wept 
over  his  vain  and  profitless  toil,  being  robbed  of  just  hire; 
and  as  rest  from  labor  is  kept  inviolate  by  the  just  man,  so 
let  the  works  of  pious  mortals  endure. 


(From  the  Book  of  Enoch) 

(Hebrew  work  of  the  Second  Century,  B.C.,  preserved  only  in  the 
Ethiopic  tongue) 

WOE  unto  you  who  despise  the  himable  dwelling  and 
inheritance  of  your  fathers!  Woe  unto  you  who 
build  your  palaces  with  the  sweat  of  others!  Each  stone, 
each  brick  of  which  it  is  built,  is  a  sin! 


^titit  in  ^obntv 

By  Confucitjs 
(Chinese  philosopher,  B.  C.  500) 

RICHES  and  honor  are  what  men  desire;  but  if  they 
attain  to  them  by  improper  ways,  they  should  not 
continue  to  hold  them.  Poverty  and  low  estate  are  what 
men  dislike;  but  if  they  are  brought  to  such  condition  by 
improper  ways,  they  should  not  feel  shame  for  it. 


Ii.112  The    Cry   for    Justice 

9?(lUonaiw0  in  Eomc 

By  Cicero 
(Latin  statesman  and  orator,  B.  C.  106-43) 

A  S  to  their  money,  and  their  splendid  mansions,  and  their 
■'*•  wealth,  and  their  lordship,  and  the  deUghts  by  which 
they  are  chiefly  attracted,  never  in  truth  have  I  ranked 
them  amongst  things  good  or  desirable;  inasmuch  as  I 
saw  for  a  certainty  that  in  the  abundance  of  these  things 
men  longed  most  for  the  very  things  wherein  they 
abounded.  For  never  is  the  thirst  of  cupidity  filled  nor 
sated.  And  not  only  are  they  tortured  by  the  longing  to 
increase  their  possessions,  but  they  are  also  tortured  by 
fear  of  losing  them. 


By  Ezekiel 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.  C.  600) 

'  I  "HE  word  of  the  Lord  came  unto  me,  saying,  Son  of 
-*•  man,  prophesy  against  the  shepherds  of  Israel, 
prophesy  and  say  imto  them.  Thus  saith  the  Lord  God 
unto  the  shepherds:  Woe  be  to  the  shepherds  of  Israel 
that  do  feed  themselves!  Should  not  the  shepherds  feed 
the  flocks?  Ye  eat  the  fat,  and  ye  clothe  you  with  the 
wool,  ye  kill  them  that  are  fed :  but  ye  feed  not  the  flock. 
The  diseased  have  ye  not  strengthened,  neither  have  ye 
healed  that  which  was  sick,  neither  have  ye  bound  up  that 
which  was  broken,  neither  have  ye  brought  again  that 
which  was  driven  away,  neither  have  ye  sought  that  which 
was  lost;  but  with  force  and  with  cruelty  have  ye  ruled 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  '  473 

them.  And  they  were  scattered,  because  there  is  no  shep- 
herd. .  .  My  sheep  wandered  through  all  the  mountains, 
and  upon  every  high  hill;  yea,  my  flock  was  scattered 
upon  all  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  none  did  search  or  seek 
after  them.  Therefore  ye  shepherds,  hear  the  word  of 
the  Lord;  as  I  live,  saith  the  Lord  God,  .  .  .  Behold,  I 
am  against  the  shepherds;  and  I  will  require  my  flock  at 
their  hand.  ...  I  will  feed  my  flock,  and  I  will  cause  them 
to  he  down.  .  .  .  And  they  shall  no  more  be  a  prey  to  the 
heathen,  neither  shall  the  beast  of  the  land  devour  them; 
but  they  shall  dwell  safely,  and  none  shall  make  them 
afraid.  And  ye  my  flock,  the  flock  of  my  pasture,  are 
men,  and  I  am  your  God,  saith  the  Lord  God. 


JL(i\iit0  ot  jFa0|)ton 

By  Isaiah 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.  C.  740) 

THE  Lord  standeth  up  to  plead,  and  standeth  to  judge 
the  people.  The  Lord  will  enter  into  judgment  with 
the  ancients  of  his  people,  and  the  princes  thereof;  for  ye 
have  eaten  up  the  vineyard;  the  spoil  of  the  poor  is  in 
your  houses.  What  mean  ye  that  ye  beat  my  people  to 
pieces,  and  grind  the  faces  of  the  poor?  saith  the  Lord 
God  of  Hosts.  Moreover  the  Lord  saith,  Because  the 
daughters  of  Zion  are  haughty,  and  walk  with  stretched 
forth  necks  and  wanton  eyes,  walking  and  mincing  as 
they  go,  and  making  a  tinkling  with  their  feet;  therefore 
the  Lord  will  smite  with  a  scab  the  crown  of  the  head  of 
the  daughters  of  Zion,  and  the  Lord  will  discover  their 
secret  parts.     In  that  day  the  Lord  will  take  away  the 


474  The    Cry   for    Justice 

bravery  of  their  tinkling  ornaments  about  their  feet,  and 
their  cauls,  and  their  round  tires  like  the  moon,  the  chains, 
and  the  bracelets,  and  the  mufflers,  the  bonnets,  and  the 
ornaments  of  the  legs,  and  the  headbands,  and  the  tablets, 
and  the  earrings,  the  rings,  and  nose  jewels,  the  changeable 
suits  of  apparel,  and  the  mantles,  and  the  wimples,  and 
the  crisping  pins,  the  glasses,  and  the  fine  linen,  and  the 
hoods,  and  the  veils.  And  it  shall  come  to  pass  that 
instead  of  sweet  smell  there  shall  be  stink;  and  instead  of 
a  girdle  a  rent;  and  instead  of  well  set  hair,  baldness; 
and  instead  of  a  stomacher  a  girding  of  sackcloth;  and 
burning  instead  of  beauty.  Thy  men  shall  fall  by  the 
sword,  and  thy  mighty  in  the  war.  And  her  gates  shall 
lament  and  mourn;  and  she  being  desolate  shall  sit  upon 
the  ground. 


Concetning  'Mn&tict 

(Ancient  Hindu  Proverb) 

JUSTICE  is  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  Nature,  that  if  in 
the  last  day  one  atom  of  injustice  were  found,  the 
universe  would  shrivel  like  a  snake-skin  to  cast  it  off 
forever. 

By  Marcus  Aukelius 
(Roman  emperor,  A.  D.  121-180) 

TN  the  whole  constitution  of  man,  I  see  not  any  virtue 
■'■  contrary  to  justice,  whereby  it  may  be  resisted  and 
opposed. 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  Ji.75 

By  Sadi 
(Persian  poet,  A.D.  1200) 

"  I  ""AKE  heed  that  he  weep  not;  for  the  throne  of  the 
^  Ahnighty  is  shaken  to  and  fro  when  the  orphan  sets 
a-crying.  Beware  of  the  groans  of  the  wounded  souls, 
since  the  hidden  sore  will  at  length  break  out;  oppress 
not  to  the  utmost  a  single  heart,  for  a  single  sigh  has 
power  to  overset  a  whole  world. 

{From  "The  Koran") 
(Bible  of  Mohammedanism;  Arabic,  A.D.  600) 

JUSTICE  is  an  unassailable  fortress,  built  on  the  brow 
of  a  mountain  which  cannot  be  overthrown  by  the 
violence  of  torrents,  nor  demolished  by  the  force  of 
armies. 

"Do  you  desire,"  said  Abdallah,  "to  bring  the  praise 
of  mankind  upon  your  action?  Then  desire  not  unjustly, 
or  even  by  your  right,  to  grasp  that  which  belongs  to 
another." 


T 


(Arabian  proverb,  Sixteenth  Century) 

HE  exercise  of  equity  for  one  day  is  equal  to  sixty 
years  spent  in  prayer. 


By  Nintoku 
(Japanese  emperor,  Fourth  Century) 

■  F  the  people  are  poor,  I  am  the  poorest. 


^76  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Plutarch 
(Greek  historian,  A.D.  50-120) 

'  I  'HE  Athenians  fell  into  their  old  quarrels  about  the 
■'-  government,  there  being  as  many  different  parties 
as  there  were  diversities  in  the  country.  The  Hill  quarter 
favoured  democracy,  the  Plain,  oligarchy,  and  those 
that  lived  by  the  Seaside  stood  for  a  mixed  sort  of  govern- 
ment, and  so  hindered  either  of  the  other  parties  from 
prevailing.  And  the  disparity  of  fortune  between  the 
rich  and  the  poor  at  that  time  also  reached  its  height; 
so  that  the  city  seemed  to  be  in  a  truly  dangerous  condi- 
tion, and  there  appeared  no  other  means  for  freeing  it 
from  disturbances  and  settling  it  but  a  despotic  power. 
All  the  people  were  indebted  to  the  rich;  and  either  they 
tilled  their  land  for  their  creditors,  paying  them  a  sixth 
part  of  the  increase,  or  else  they  engaged  their  body  for 
the  debt,  and  might  be  seized,  and  either  sent  into  slavery 
at  home,  or  sold  to  strangers;  some  (for  no  law  forbade  it) 
were  forced  to  sell  their  children,  or  fly  their  country  to 
avoid  the  cruelty  of  their  creditors;  but  the  most  part 
and  the  bravest  of  them  began  to  combine  together  and 
encom-age  one  another  to  stand  it,  to  choose  a  leader,  to 
Uberate  the  condemned  debtors,  divide  the  land,  and 
change  the  government. 

Then  the  wisest  of  the  Athenians,  perceiving  Solon  was 
of  all  men  the  only  one  not  implicated  in  the  troubles, 
that  he  had  not  joined  in  the  exactions  of  the  rich,  and  was 
not  involved  in  the  necessities  of  the  poor,  pressed  him 
to  succour  the  conmionwealth  and  compose  the  dif- 
ferences. .  .  , 


The    Voice    of    the    Ages  477 

The  first  thing  which  he  settled  was,  that  what  debts 
remained  should  be  forgiven,  and  no  man,  for  the  future, 
should  engage  the  body  of  his  debtor  for  security. 


€ontttnins  %anti 

By  Solon 
(Greek  lawgiver,  B.C.  639-559) 

■"  I  "HE  mortgage  stones  that  covered  her,  by  me 
■*■  Removed,  the  land  that  was  a  slave  is  free. 

Deutebonomy 
(Hebrew,  B.C.  700?) 

THESE  are  the  statutes  and  judgments,  which  ye  shall 
observe  to  do  in  the  land,  which  the  Lord  God  of  thy 
fathers  giveth  thee  to  possess  it,  all  the  days  that  ye  live 
upon  the  earth.  ...  At  the  end  of  every  seven  years 
thou  shalt  make  a  release.  And  this  is  the  manner  of 
the  release:  Every  creditor  that  lendeth  ought  unto 
his  neighbor  shall  release  it,  he  shall  not  exact  it  of  his 
neighbor,  or  of  his  brother;  because  it  is  called  the  Lord's 
release. 

Leviticus 
(Hebrew  law-book,  B.C.  700?) 

AND  the  Lord  spake  unto  Moses  in  Mount  Sinai, 
•  saying:  .  .  .  "The  land  shall  not  be  sold  for  ever; 
for  the  land  is  mine;  for  ye  are  strangers  and  sojourners 
with  me." 


478  The    Cry   for    Justice 

(From  "Discourse  on  the  Origin  of  Inequality") 

By  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau 

(French  novelist  and  philosopher,  1712-1778;   father  of  the  French 
Revolution) 

^  I  "'HE  first  man  who,  having  enclosed  a  piece  of  ground, 
■'■  bethought  himself  of  saying.  This  is  mine,  and  found 
people  simple  enough  to  believe  him,  was  the  real  founder 
of  civil  society.  From  how  many  crimes,  wars  and 
murders,  from  how  many  horrors  and  misfortunes  might 
not  any  one  have  saved  mankind,  by  pulling  up  the  stakes, 
or  filling  up  the  ditch,  and  crying  to  his  fellows,  "  Beware 
of  listening  to  this  impostor;  you  are  undone  if  you  once 
forget  that  the  fruits  of  the  earth  belong  to  us  all,  and 
the  earth  itself  to  nobody." 


EatitcaUs(m 

By  Confucius 
(Chinese  philosopher,  B.C.  500) 

I  "HINGS  have  their  root  and  their  completion.      It 
-'-     cannot  be  that  when  the  root  is  neglected,  what 
springs  from  it  will  be  well  ordered. 


The    Voice    of   the    Ages  479 

Peeking  Cau0e0 

By  Plato 
(Greek  philosopher  and  poet,  B.C.  428-347) 

TV  TEITHER  drugs  nor  charms  nor  burnings  will  touch 
■'■  ^  a  deep-lying  political  sore  any  more  than  a  deep 
bodily  one;  but  only  right  and  utter  change  of  constitu- 
tion; and  they  do  but  lose  their  labor  who  think  that  by 
any  tricks  of  law  they  can  get  the  better  of  those  mischiefs 
of  commerce,  and  see  not  that  they  hew  at  a  hydra. 


Concnning;  Wi&wii^* 

{From  "The  Koran") 
(Arabic,  A.D.  600) 

"  I  "0  him  who  is  of  kin  to  thee  give  his  due,  and  to  the 
■»■  poor  and  to  the  wayfarer:  this  will  be  best  for  those 
who  seek  the  face  of  God;  and  with  them  it  shall  be  well. 
Whatever  ye  put  out  at  usury  to  increase  it  with  the 
substance  of  others  shall  have  no  increase  from  God: 
but  whatever  ye  shall  give  in  alms,  as  seeking  the  face  of 
God,  shall  be  doubled  to  you. 

{From  the  Psalms) 
(Hebrew,  B.C.  200) 

LORD,  who  shall  abide  in  thy  tabernacle?     Who  shall 
dwell  in  thy  holy  hill? 
He  that  walketh  uprightly,  and  worketh  righteousness, 
and  speaketh  the  truth  in  his  heart.  .  .  . 

*  As  used  in  the  Bible,  and  other  ancient  writings,  the  word  usury  means,  not 
excessive  interest-taking,  but  all  interest-taking  whatever. 


480  The    Cry  for    Justice 

He  that  putteth  his  money  not  out  to  usury,  nor  taketh 
reward  against  the  innocent.  He  that  doeth  these  things 
shall  never  be  moved. 

By  Aristotle 
(Greek  philosopher,  B.C.  Fourth  Century) 

T    TSURY  is  the  most  reasonably  detested  of  all  forms  of 
^-^  money-making;  it  is  most  against  nature. 

{From  "Essay  on  Riches") 

By  Francis  Bacon,  Lord  Verulam 

(Enghsh  philosopher  and  statesman,  1561-1626) 

THE  ways  to  enrich  are  many,  and  most  of  them 
foul.  .  .  . 
Usury  is  the  certainest  means  of  gain,  though  one  of 
the  worst;  as  that  whereby  a  man  doth  eat  his  bread  with 
sweat  of  another's  face,  and  besides,  doth  plough  upon 
Sundays. 


By  Marcus  Axjrelius 
(Ronaan  emperor,  A.D.  121-180) 


A  S  thou  thyself,  whoever  thou  art,  wert  made  for  the 
■^*-  perfection  and  consummation  of  a  common  society; 
so  must  every  action  of  thine  tend  to  the  perfection  and 
consummation  of  a  life  that  is  truly  sociable.     Whatever 


The    Voice    of   the    Ages  4^1 

action  of  thine  that,  either  immediately  or  afar  off,  hath 
not  reference  to  the  common  good,  that  is  an  exorbitant 
and  disorderly  action;  yea,  it  is  seditious;  as  one  among 
the  people  who  from  a  general  consent  and  miity  should 
factiously  divide  and  separate  himself. 


By  Wang-An-Shih 
(Chinese  statesman,  Eleventh  Century) 

I  ^HE   State   should  take   the   entire   management  of 
■••     commerce,  industry,   and  agricultiu-e  into  its  own 
hands,  with  a  view  to  succoring  the  working  classes  and 
preventing  their  being  ground  to  the  dust  by  the  rich. 


W^e  Promise 

(From  the  Psalms) 
(Hebrew,  B.C.  200) 

I  "'HE  Lord  shall  deliver  the  needy  when  he  crieth;  the 

■'■     poor  also,  and  him  that  hath  no  helper.     He  shall 

spare  the  poor  and  needy,  and  shall  save  the  souls  of  the 

needy.      He   shall   redeem  their   soul   from   deceit   and 

violence;  and  precious  shall  their  blood  be  in  his  sight. 


31 


48S  The    Cry   for    Justice 

%^t  Co^^oprtatitie  Commonbealtg 

By  Isaiah  II,  the  Prophet  of  the  Exile 
(B.C.  550) 

AND  they  shall  build  houses,  and  inhabit  them;  and 
■  they  shall  plant  vineyards,  and  eat  the  fruit  of  them. 
They  shall  not  build,  and  another  inhabit;  they  shall  not 
plant,  and  another  eat;  for  as  the  days  of  a  tree  are  the 
days  of  my  people,  and  mine  elect  shall  long  enjoy  the 
work  of  their  hands. 


BOOK  X 

Mammon 


Wealth,  and  the  crimes  that  are  committed  in  its  name,  and 
the  protests  of  the  spirit  of  humanity  against  its  power  in  society. 


By  John  Milton 
(English  lyric  and  epic  poet,  1608-1674) 

MAMMON  led  them  on— 
Mammon,  the  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 
From  Heaven;  for  even  in  Heaven  his  looks  and  thoughts 
Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring  more 
The  riches  of  Heaven's  pavement,  trodden  gold, 
Than  aught  divine  or  holy  else  enjoyed 
In  vision  beatific.     By  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught. 
Ransacked  the  centre,  and  with  impious  hands 
Rifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  earth 
For  treasures  better  hid.     Soon  had  his  crew 
Opened  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound. 
And  digged  out  ribs  of  gold.     Let  none  admire 
That  riches  grow  in  Hell;  that  soil  may  best 
Deserve  the  precious  bane. 


By  Thomas  Hood 
(See  pages  59,  171) 

GOLD!  Gold!  Gold!  Gold! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold. 
Molten,  graven,  hammer'd,  and  roU'd; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold; 

(485) 


486  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Hoarded,  barter'd,  bought,  and  sold, 

Stolen,  borrow'd,  squander'd,  doled: 

Spurn'd  by  the  young,  but  hugg'd  by  the  old 

To  the  very  verge  of  the  chin-chyard  mould; 

Price  of  many  a  crime  untold: 

Gold!  Gold!  Gold!  Gold! 

Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary — 

To  save — to  ruin — to  curse — ^to  bless — 

As  even  its  minted  coins  express. 

Now  stamp'd  with  the  image  of  Good  Queen  Bess, 

And  now  of  a  bloody  Mary. 


Mottbttn  jFarmer:  Ueto  &t?Ie 

Bt  Alfred  Tennyson 
(See  page  77) 

I   AOSN'T  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they  canters 

-■ — ^  awaay, 

Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — that's  what  I  'ears  'em 

saay. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — Sam,  thou's  an  ass  for 

thy  paains, 
Theer's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor  in  all  thy  braains. 

Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean  a-talkin'  o'  thee; 
Thou's  beSn  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she  bean  a  tellin'  it 

me. 
Thou'll  not  marry  for  mimny — ^thou's  sweet  upo'  parson's 

lass — 
Noa — ^thou'll  marry  for  luw — an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks 

tha  an  ass. 


M  ammon  4^7 

Seea'd  her  todaay  goa  by — Saaint's  daay — they  was  ring- 
ing the  bells. 

She's  a  beauty  thou  thinks — an'  soa  is  scoors  o'  gells, 

Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all — wot's  a  beauty? — the  flower 
as  blaws. 

But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty 
graws. 

Doant't  be  stunt :  taake  time :  I  knaws  what  maakes  tha 

sa  mad. 
Wam't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  mys6n  when  I  wur  a  lad? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this: 
"Doan't  thou  marry  for  miumy,  but  goa  wheer  mimny 

is!" 


iRoto  3  Eag  9^e  2Doton  to  &I«p 

By  John  D.  Rockefeller 
(American  capitalist,  born  1839) 

^  I  "HEN,  and  indeed  for  many  years  after,  it  seemed  as 
-^  though  there  was  no  end  to  the  money  needed  to 
carry  on  and  develop  the  business.  As  our  successes 
began  to  come,  I  seldom  put  my  head  upon  the  pillow 
at  night  without  speaking  a  few  words  to  myself  in  this 
wise: 

"Now  a  little  success,  soon  you  will  fall  down,  soon 
you  will  be  overthrown.  Because  you  have  got  a  start, 
you  think  you  are  quite  a  merchant;  look  out,  or  you 
will  lose  your  head — go  steady."  These  intimate  con- 
versations with  myself,  I  am  sure,  had  a  great  influence 
on  my  life. 


488  The    Cry  for    Justice 

From  Ecclesiasticus 

A  MERCHANT  shall  hardly  keep  himself  from 
-^*-  wrong-doing;  and  a  huckster  shall  not  be  acquitted 
of  sin. 


ISasft  anil  ^tt0tnt 

By  Thomas  CablyLe 
(See  pages  31,  74,  133) 

WHAT  is  it,  if  you  pierce  through  his  Cants,  his  oft- 
repeated  Hearsays,  what  he  calls  his  Worships 
and  so  forth, — what  is  it  that  the  modem  English  soul 
does,  in  very  truth,  dread  infinitely,  and  contemplate 
with  entire  despair?  What  is  his  Hell,  after  all  these 
reputable,  oft-repeated  Hearsays,  what  is  it?  With  hesi- 
tation, with  astonishment,  I  pronounce  it  to  be:  The 
terror  of  "Not  succeeding";  of  not  making  money, 
fame,  or  some  other  figure  in  the  world, — chiefly  of  not 
making  money!     Is  not  that  a  somewhat  singular  Hell? 


By  Arthur  Hugh  Clottgh 

(English  poet  and  scholar,  friend  of  Tennyson  and  Matthew  Arnold,. 
1819-1861) 

AS  I  sat  at  the  caf6,  I  said  to  myself, 
•  They  may  talk  as  they  please  about  what  they  call 
pelf. 
They  may  sneer  as  they  like  about  eating  and  drinking. 


Mammon  4^9 

But  help  it  I  cannot,  I  cannot  help  thinking, 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho! 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

I  sit  at  my  table  en  grand  seigneur, 
And  when  I  have  done,  throw  a  crust  to  the  poor; 
Not  only  the  pleasure,  one's  self,  of  good  Uving, 
But  also  the  pleasure  of  now  and  then  giving. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money.  .  .  . 

I  drive  through  the  streets,  and  I  care  not  a  d — ^n; 
The  people  they  stare,  and  they  ask  who  I  am; 
And  if  I  should  chance  to  run  over  a  cad, 
I  can  pay  for  the  damage  if  ever  so  bad. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

We  stroll  to  our  box  and  look  down  on  the  pit, 
And  if  it  weren't  low  should  be  tempted  to  spit; 
We  loll  and  we  talk  until  people  look  up, 
And  when  it's  half  over  we  go  out  to  sup. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

The  best  of  the  tables  and  best  of  the  fare — 
And  as  for  the  others,  the  devil  may  care; 
It  isn't  our  fault  if  they  dare  not  afford 
To  sup  like  a  prince  and  be  drunk  as  a  lord. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 


J^90  The    Cry   for    Justice 

?Htopia 

By  Sir  Thomas  More 
(See  page  160) 

nPHEY  marveile  also  that  golde,  whych  of  the  owne 
-'■  nature  is  a  thinge  so  iinprofytable,  is  nowe  amonge 
all  people  in  so  hyghe  estimation,  that  man  him  selfe,  by 
whome,  yea  and  for  the  use  of  whome  it  is  so  much  set 
by,  is  in  muche  lesse  estimation,  then  the  golde  it  selfe. 
In  so  muche  that  a  limipyshe  blockehedded  churle,  and 
whyche  hathe  no  more  wytte  then  an  asse,  yea  and  as 
ful  of  noughtynes  as  of  follye,  shall  have  nevertheless 
manye  wyse  and  good  men  in  subjectyon  and  bondage, 
only  for  this,  bycause  he  hath  a  greate  heape  of  golde. 
Whyche  yf  it  shoulde  be  taken  from  hym  by  anye  for- 
tune, or  by  some  subtyll  wyle  and  cautele  of  the  lawe, 
(whyche  no  lesse  then  fortune  dothe  bothe  raise  up  the 
lowe,  and  plucke  downe  the  highe)  and  be  geven  to  the 
moste  vile  slave  and  abject  dryvell  of  all  his  housholde, 
then  shortely  after  he  shal  goo  into  the  service  of  his 
servaunt,  as  an  augmentation  or  overplus  beside  his 
money.  But  they  muche  more  marvell  at  and  detest 
the  madnes  of  them,  whyche  to  those  riche  men,  in  whose 
debte  and  daunger  they  be  not,  do  give  almost  divine 
honoures,  for  none  other  consideration,  but  bicause  they 
be  riche:  and  yet  knowing  them  to  bee  suche  nigeshe 
penny  fathers,  that  they  be  sure  as  longe  as  they  live, 
not  the  worthe  of  one  farthinge  of  that  heape  of  gold 
shall  come  to  them.  These  and  such  like  opinions  have 
they  conceaved,  partely  by  education,  beinge  brought  up 
in  that  common  wealthe,  whose  lawes  and  customes  be 
farre  different  from  these  kindes  of  folly,  and  partel'*^  by 
good  litterature  and  learning. 


M  ammon  491 

'd^t  Ctoton  of  ^iltr  SDlibt 

By  John  Ruskin 
(See  page  106) 

IT  is  physically  impossible  for  a  well-educated,  intel- 
lectual, or  brave  man  to  make  money  the  chief  object 
of  his  thoughts;  as  physically  impossible  as  it  is  for  him 
to  make  his  dinner  the  principal  object  of  them.  All 
healthy  people  like  their  dinners,  but  their  dinner  is  not 
the  main  object  of  their  lives.  So  all  healthily  minded 
people  like  making  money — ought  to  like  it,  and  to  enjoy 
the  sensation  of  winning  it:  but  the  main  object  of  their 
life  is  not  money;  it  is  something  better  than  money. 


SDon  3uan 

By  Lord  Byron 
(See  pages  233,  340) 

OH,  Gold!    Why  call  we  misers  miserable? 
Theirs  is  the  pleasure  that  can  never  pall; 
Theirs  is  the  best  bower-anchor,  the  chain-cable 

Which  holds  fast  other  pleasures  great  and  small. 
Ye  who  but  see  the  saving  man  at  table 

And  scorn  his  temperate  board,  as  none  at  all. 
And  wonder  how  the  wealthy  can  be  sparing, 
Know    not    what    visions    spring    from    each    cheese- 
paring. .  .  . 

Perhaps  he  hath  great  projects  in  his  mind 
To  build  a  college,  or  to  found  a  race, 


492  The    Cry  for    Justice 

An  hospital,  a  church — and  leave  behind 
Some  dome  surmounted  by  his  meagre  face; 

Perhaps  he  fain  would  liberate  mankind, 

Even  with  the  very  ore  that  makes  them  base; 

Perhaps  he  would  be  wealthiest  of  his  nation. 

Or  revel  in  the  joys  of  calculation.  .  .  . 

"  Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove — for  love 
Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love:"   so  sings  the  bard; 

Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove 
(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard). 

Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  "the  grove," 
At  least  it  rhymes  to  "love";  but  I'm  prepared 

To  doubt  (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 

If  "courts"  and  "camps"  be  quite  so  sentimental. 

But  if  Love  don't.  Cash  does,  and  Cash  alone: 
Cash  rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  besides; 

Without  cash,  camps  were  thin,  and  courts  were  none; 
Without  cash,  Malthus  tells  you,  "take  no  brides." 

So  Cash  rules  Love  the  ruler,  on  his  own 

High  ground,  as  virgin  Cynthia  sways  the  tides: 

And  as  for  "Heaven  being  Love,"  why  not  say  honey 

Is  wax?    Heaven  is  not  Love,  'tis  Matrimony. 


By  William  Shakespeare  \ 

(See  page  181) 

GOLD?  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold?  .  .  . 
This  yellow  slave 
Will  knit  and  break  religions;  bless  the  accursed; 
Make  the  hoar  leprosy  adored;  place  thieves. 
And  give  them  title,  knee  and  approbation 
With  senators  on  the  bench. 


Mammon  493 

^^t  €o.bt  ot  St^ammon 

{From  "The  Faerie  Queene") 

By  Edmxind  Spenser 

(Old  EngUsh  poet,  1552-1599) 

At  last  he  came  unto  a  gloomy  glade 

-^*-  Cover'd  with  boughs  and  shrubs  from  heavens  light, 

Whereas  he  sitting  found  in  secret  shade 
An  uncouth,  salvage,  and  uncivile  wight, 
Of  griesly  hew  and  fowle  ill-favour'd  sight; 

His  face  with  smoke  was  tand,  and  eies  were  bleard, 
His  head  and  beard  with  sout  were  ill  bedight, 

His  cole-blacke  hands  did  seem  to  have  ben  seard 

In  smythes  fire-spitting  forge,   and  nayles  like   clawes 
appeard.  .  .  . 

And  romid  about  him  lay  on  every  side 

Great  heapes  of  gold  that  never  could  be  spent; 
Of  which  some  were  rude  owre,  not  purifide. 

Of  Mulcibers  devom-ing  element; 

Some  others  were  new  driven,  and  distent 
Into  great  ingowes  and  to  wedges  square; 

Some  in  round  plates  withouten  moniment; 
But  most  were  stampt,  and  in  their  metal  bare 
The  antique  shapes  of  kings  and  kesars  straimg  and 
rare.  .  .  . 

"What  secret  place,"  quoth  he,  "can  safely  hold 
So  huge  a  mass,  and  hide  from  heavens  eie? 

Or  where  hast  thou  thy  woime,  that  so  much  gold 
Thou  canst  preserve  from  wrong  and  robbery?" 
"Come  thou,"  quoth  he,  "and  see."     So  by  and  by 


4^4  The    Cry  for    Justice 

Through  that  black  covert  he  him  led,  and  f ownd 

A  darksome  way,  which  no  man  could  descry. 
That  deep  descended  through  the  hollow  grownd. 
And  was  with  dread  and  horror  compassed  arownd.  .  .  . 

So  soon  as  Mammon  there  arrived,  the  dore 

To  him  did  open  and  affoorded  way: 
Him  followed  eke  Sir  Guyon  evermore, 

Ne  darknesse  him  ne  daimger  might  dismay. 

Soone  as  he  entred  was,  the  dore  streightway 
Did  shutt,  and  from  behind  it  forth  there  lept 

An  ugly  feend,  more  fowle  then  dismall  day: 
The  which  with  monstrous  stalke  behind  him  stept, 
And  ever  as  he  went  dew  watch  upon  him  kept. 

Well  hoped  hee,  ere  long  that  hardy  guest, 

If  ever  covetous  hand,  or  lustful!  eye. 
Or  lips  he  layd  on  thing  that  likte  him  best, 

Or  ever  sleepe  his  eie-strings  did  untye. 

Should  be  his  pray:  and  therefore  still  on  hye 
He  over  him  did  hold  his  cruell  clawes, 

Threatning  with  greedy  gripe  to  doe  him  dye, 
And  rend  in  peeces  with  his  ravenous  pawes, 
If  ever  he  transgrest  the  fatall  Stygian  lawes. 

In  all  that  rowme  was  nothing  to  be  scene 

But  huge  great  yron  chests,  and  coffers  strong. 
All  bard  with  double  bends,  that  none  could  weene 

Them  to  efforce  by  violence  or  wrong; 

On  every  side  they  placed  were  along. 
But  all  the  grownd  with  sculs  was  scattered 

And  dead  mens  bones,  which  round  about  were  flong; 
Whose  Uves,  it  seemed,  whilome  there  was  shed, 
And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburi^d. 


M  ammon  495 

By  George  MacDonald 
(Scotch  novelist  and  clergyman,  1824r-1905) 

THE  croak  of  a  raven  hoar! 
A  dog's  howl,  kennel-tied! 
Loud  shuts  the  carriage-door: 

The  two  are  away  on  their  ghastly  ride 
To  Death's  salt  shore! 

Where  are  the  love  and  the  grace? 

The  bridegroom  is  thirsty  and  cold! 
The  bride's  skull  sharpens  her  face ! 

But  the  coachman  is  driving,  jubilant,  bold, 
The  devil's  pace. 

The  horses  shiver'd  and  shook 

Waiting  gaunt  and  haggard 
With  sorry  and  evil  look; 

But  swift  as  a  drunken  wind  they  stagger' d 
'Longst  Lethe  brook. 

Long  since,  they  ran  no  more; 

Heavily  pulling  they  died 
On  the  sand  of  the  hopeless  shore 

Where  never  swell'd  or  sank  a  tide, 
And  the  salt  burns  sore. 

Flat  their  skeletons  He, 

White  shadows  on  shining  sand; 
The  crusted  reins  go  high 

To  the  crumbhng  coachman's  bony  hand 
On  his  knees  awry. 


496  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Side  by  side,  jarring  no  more, 

Day  and  night  side  by  side. 
Each  by  a  doorless  door, 

Motionless  sit  the  bridegroom  and  bride 
On  the  Dead-Sea-shore. 


S>noh0  and  Siparrfase 

{From  "  The  Book  of  Snobs") 

By  William  Makepeace  Thackebat 

(English  novelist  and  satirist  of  manners,  1811-1863) 

T3E0PLE  dare  not  be  happy  for  fear  of  Snobs.  People 
■'-  dare  not  love  for  fear  of  Snobs.  People  pine  away 
lonely  under  the  tyranny  of  Snobs.  Honest  kindly  hearts 
dry  up  and  die.  Gallant  generous  lads,  blooming  with 
hearty  youth,  swell  into  bloated  old  bachelorhood,  and 
burst  and  tumble  over.  Tender  girls  wither  into  shrimken 
decay,  and  perish  solitary,  from  whom  Snobbishness  has 
cut  off  the  common  claim  to  happiness  and  affection  with 
which  Nature  endowed  us  all.  My  heart  grows  sad  as 
I  see  the  blundering  tyrant's  handiwork.  As  I  behold 
it  I  swell  with  cheap  rage,  and  glow  with  fury  against 
the  Snob.  Come  down,  I  say,  thou  skulking  dullness. 
Come  down,  thou  stupid  bully,  and  give  up  thy  brutal 
ghost!  And  I  arm  myself  with  the  sword  and  spear, 
and  taking  leave  of  my  family,  go  forth  to  do  battle 
with  that  hideous  ogre  and  giant,  that  brutal  despot  in 
Snob  Castle,  who  holds  so  many  gentle  hearts  in  torture 
and  thrall. 


o  > 
u  ^ 

> 
o 


Mammon  497 

By  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 
(Irish-born  American  journalist,  1844-1890) 

■"  I  ^HE  thirsty  of  soul  soon  learn  to  know 

■*-     The  moistureless  froth  of  the  social  show, 
The  vulgar  sham  of  the  pompous  feast 
Where  the  heaviest  purse  is  the  highest  priest; 
The  organized  charity,  scrimped  and  iced. 
In  the  name  of  a  cautious,  statistical  Christ. 


Panftp  JFait 

(From  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress") 
By  John  Bunyan 

(English  tinker  and  religious  rebel,  who  was  put  in  prison  and  there 
wrote  one  of  the  world's  great  allegories;  1628-1688) 

THEN  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  when  they  were  got 
out  of  the  wilderness,  they  presently  saw  a  town 
before  them,  and  the  name  of  that  town  is  Vanity;  and 
at  the  town  there  is  a  fair. kept,  called  Vanity  Fair.  It 
is  kept  all  the  year  long.  ...  At  this  fair  are  all  such 
merchandise  sold  as  houses,  lands,  trades,  places,  honors, 
preferments,  titles,  countries,  kingdoms,  lusts,  pleasures; 
and  delights  of  all  sorts,  such  as  harlots,  wives,  husbands, 
children,  masters,  servants,  lives,  blood,  bodies,  souls, 
silver,  gold,  precious  stones,  and  what  not. 

And  moreover,  at  this  fair  there  are  at  all  times  to  be 
seen  jugglings,  cheats,  games,  plays,  fools,  apes,  knaves, 
and  rogues,  and  that  of  every  kind. 

32 


498  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Here  are  to  be  seen,  too,  and  that  for  nothing,  thefts, 
murders,  adulteries  false-swearers,  and  that  of  a  blood- 
red  color. 


'^gt  &in0  of  ^otitt^ 

By  Bebnaed  Vaughan 

(The  sermons  of  a  Jesuit  priest,  in  Mayfair,  London,  which  caused 
great  excitement  among  the  "Smart  Set") 

COCIETY  nowadays,  as  we  all  know,  is  every  bit  as 
^  material  as  it  was  when  Dives  was  alive.  It  still 
cares  very  little,  indeed,  for  what  it  cannot  either  put  on 
or  into  itself.  It  is  self-centred.  Its  fair  votaries  must 
be  set  up  by  the  best  man-milliner,  and  fed  up  by  the 
best  man-cook;  and  then,  provided  they  are  known  at 
the  opera  by  their  diamonds,  in  Mayfair  by  their  motors, 
and  at  Cowes  by  their  yacht,  nothing  else  matters,  espe- 
cially if  they  happen  to  have  a  house  at  Ascot  and  a 
laimch  at  Henley  for  the  racing  weeks. 

It  is  not  so  much  persons  as  things  that  count  in  this 
age  of  materialism.  Hence  there  is  but  one  sin  less 
pardonable  than  that  of  being  dull,  and  that  is  being' 
poor.  After  all,  there  may  be  some  excuse  for  dulness 
if  you  have  money,  but  there  is  simply  none  at  all  for 
poverty,  which  like  dirt  on  one's  shoes,  or  dust  on  one's 
gown,  must  be  brushed  away  from  sight  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Not  even  poor  relatives  are  tolerated  or  recog- 
nized, except  occasionally  on  an  "off-day,"  when,  like 
some  unfortunate  governesses  in  such  households,  they 
may  be  asked  to  look  in  at  tea-time,  when  nobody  is 
there.  Surely  all  this  is  very  contemptible,  and  alto- 
gether unworthy  of  old  English  traditions.     Yes,  but  old 


Mammon  499 

English  traditions,  with  rare  exceptions,  are  being  swept 
away  by  the  iacomiag  tide  of  millionaire  wealth,  so  that, 
nowadays,  it  matters  httle  what  you  are,  but  much,  nay, 
everything,  what  you  have.  If  you  command  money, 
you  command  the  world.  If  you  have  none,  you  are 
nobody,  though  you  be  a  prince. 


{From  a  leading  London  newspaper) 

T7ATHER  VAUGHAN'S  knotted  lash  is  sharp,  and  he 
■'■  wields  it  sternly,  but  it  does  not  raise  one  weal  on 
the  delicate  flesh  of  these  massaged  and  manicured  Salomes 
and  Phrynes.  His  scorn  is  savage,  but  it  does  not  pro- 
duce more  than  a  polite  smile  on  these  soft,  faultless 
faces.  His  contempt  is  bitter,  but  it  does  not  make  a 
single  modish  harlot  blush.  They  are  dimly  amused  by 
the  excitement  of  the  good  man.  They  are  not  in  the 
least  annoyed.  They  are,  on  the  contrary,  eager  to  ask 
him  to  dinner.  What  a  piquant  sensation  to  serve 
adultery  with  the  sauce  of  asceticism! 

Father  Vaughan  says  that  if  King  Herod  and  Herodias 
and  Salome  were  to  arrive  in  Mayfair  they  would  be 
petted  by  the  Smart  Set.  The  good  father,  in  the  inno- 
cence of  his  heart,  underacts  the  role  of  Sa-vaughan-rola. 
Herod  and  Herodias  and  Salome  have  arrived.  They 
are  here.  We  know  them.  We  see  them  daily.  Their 
names  are  in  the  newspapers.  They  were  at  Ascot. 
They  are  present  at  the  smartest  weddings  at  St.  George's, 
Hanover  Square.  Do  we  despise  them?  Do  we  boycott 
them?  Do  we  cut  them.  By  no  means.  We  honor 
and  reverence  them.  We  may  talk  about  their  bestialities 
in  the  privacy  of  the  boudoir  and  the  smoking-room,  but 
in  public  the  theme  is  discreetly  evaded. 


600  The    Cry   for    Justice 

iFKti)  mtnm,  I9l5 

\ 

By  Hermann  Hagedorn     \ 

(American  poet,  born  1882.     The  following  poem  is  a  rondd,  an 

interesting  case  of  the  use  of  an  artificial  old  French 

verse-form  in  a  vital  way) 

'  I  'HE  motor  cars  go  up  and  down,     , 
■•-      The  painted  ladies  sit  and  smile.  \ 
Along  the  sidewalks,  mile  on  mile,       \ 
Parade  the  dandies  of  the  town.  / 

The  latest  hat,  the  latest  gown, 
The  tedium  of  their  souls  beguile. 

The  motor  cars  go  up  and  down. 
The  painted  ladies  sit  and  smile. 

In  wild  and  icy  waters  drown 
A  thousand  for  a  rock-bound  isle. 
Ten  thousand  in  a  black  defile 

Perish  for  justice  or  a  crown. 

The  motor  cars  go  up  and  down.  .  .  . 


{From  "  The  House  of  Mirth") 

By  Edith  Wharton 
(Contemporary  American  novelist) 

THE  environment  in  which  Lily  found  herself  was  as 
strange  to  her  as  its  inhabitants.  She  was  unac- 
quainted with  the  world  of  the  fashionable  New  York 
hotel — a  world  over-heated,  over-upholstered,  and  over- 

*  Copyright,  1905.     By  permission  of  Charles  Scribner'fa  Sons. 


Mammon  SOI 

fitted  with  mechanical  appliances  for  the  gratification  of 
fantastic  requirements,  while  the  comforts  of  a  civiUzed 
Ufe  were  as  unattainable  as  in  a  desert.  Through  this 
atmosphere  of  torrid  splendor  moved  wan  beings  as 
richly  upholstered  as  the  furniture,  beings  without  defin- 
ite pursuits  or  permanent  relations,  who  drifted  on  a 
languid  tide  of  curiosity  from  restaurant  to  concert-hall, 
from  pahn-garden  to  music-room,  from  "art-exhibit"  to 
dressmaker's  opening.  High-stepping  horses  or  elabo- 
rately equipped  motors  waited  to  carry  these  ladies  into 
vague  metropolitan  distances,  whence  they  returned,  still 
more  wan  from  the  weight  of  their  sables,  to  be  sucked 
back  into  the  stifling  inertia  of  the  hotel  routine.  Some- 
where behind  them  in  the  background  of  their  lives,  there 
was  doubtless  a  real  past,  peopled  by  real  himian  activi- 
ties: they  themselves  were  probably  the  product  of  strong 
ambitions,  persistent  energies,  diversified  contacts  with 
the  wholesome  roughness  of  life;  yet  they  had  no  more 
real  existence  than  the  poet's  shades  in  limbo. 

Lily  had  not  been  long  in  this  palHd  world  without 
discovering  that  Mrs.  Hatch  was  its  most  substantial 
figure.  .  .  .  The  daily  details  of  her  existence  were  as 
strange  to  Lily  as  its  general  tenor.  The  lady's  habits 
were  marked  by  an  Oriental  indolence  and  disorder  pecu- 
harly  trying  to  her  companion.  Mrs.  Hatch  and  her 
friends  seemed  to  float  together  outside  the  bounds  of 
time  and  space.  No  definite  hours  were  kept;  no  fixed 
obligations  existed:  night  and  day  floated  into  one  another 
in  a  blur  of  confused  and  retarded  engagements,  so  that 
one  had  the  impression  of  lunching  at  the  tea-hour,  while 
dinner  was  often  merged  in  the  noisy  after-theatre  sup- 
per which  prolonged  Mrs.  Hatch's  vigil  until  daylight. 
Through  this  jumble  of  futile  activities  came  and  went  a 


502  The    Cry   for    Justice 

strange  throng  of  hangers-on — manicures,  beauty-doctors, 
hair-dressers,  teachers  of  bridge,  of  French,  of  "physical 
development."  .  .  .  Mrs.  Hatch  swam  in  a  haze  of 
indeterminate  enthusiasms,  of  aspirations  culled  from  the 
stage,  the  newspapers,  the  fashion-journals,  and  a  gaudy 
world  of  sport  still  more  completely  beyond  her  com- 
panion's ken. 


'2t6e  paragfttic  JFfinaU 

{From  "  Woman  and  Labor  ") 

By  Olive  Schbeiner 

(In  the  preface  to  this  book,  it  is  explained  that  it  is  only  a  faint 

sketch  from  memory  of  part  of  a  great  work,  the  manuscript 

of  which  was  destroyed  during  the  Boer  war) 

IN  place  of  the  active  laboring  woman,  upholding 
society  by  her  toil,  had  come  the  effete  wife,  concubine 
or  prostitute,  clad  in  fine  raiment,  the  work  of  others' 
fingers;  fed  on  luxurious  viands,  the  result  of  others'  toil, 
waited  on  and  tended  by  the  labor  of  others.  The  need 
for  her  physical  labor  having  gone,  and  mental  industry 
not  having  taken  its  place,  she  bedecked  and  scented  her 
person,  or  had  it  bedecked  and  scented  for  her,  she  lay 
upon  her  sofa,  or  drove  or  was  carried  out  in  her  vehicle, 
and,  loaded  with  jewels,  she  sought  by  dissipations  and 
amusements  to  fill  up  the  inordinate  blank  left  by  the 
lack  of  productive  activity.  And  the  hand  whitened  and 
the  frame  softened,  till  at  last,  the  very  duties  of  mother- 
hood, which  were  all  the  constitution  of  her  life  left  her, 
became  distasteful,  and,  from  the  instant  when  her  infant 
came  damp  from  her  womb,  it  passed  into  the  hands  of 


M  amnion  503 

others,  to  be  tended  and  reared  by  them;  and  from  youth 
to  age  her  offspring  often  owed  nothing  to  her  personal 
toil.  In  many  cases  so  complete  was  her  enervation,  that 
at  last  the  very  joy  of  giving  hfe,  the  glory  and  beatitude 
of  a  virile  womanhood,  became  distasteful;  and  she 
sought  to  evade  it,  not  because  of  its  interference  with 
more  imperious  duties  to  those  already  born  of  her,  or  to 
her  society,  but  because  her  existence  of  inactivity  had 
robbed  her  of  all  joy  in  strenuous  exertion  and  endurance 
in  any  form.  Finely  clad,  tenderly  housed,  life  became  for 
her  merely  the  gratification  of  her  own  physical  and  sexual 
appetites,  and  the  appetites  of  the  male,  through  the 
stimulation  of  which  she  could  maintain  herself.  And, 
whether  as  kept  wife,  kept  mistress,  or  prostitute,  she  con- 
tributed nothing  to  the  active  and  sustaining  labors  of  her 
society.  She  had  attained  to  the  full  development  of  that 
type  which,  whether  in  modern  Paris  or  New  York  or 
London,  or  in  ancient  Greece,  Assyria,  or  Rome,  is  essen- 
tially one  in  its  features,  its  nature,  and  its  results.  She 
was  the  "fine  lady,"  the  hrnnan  female  parasite — the  most 
deadly  microbe  which  can  make  its  appearance  on  the 
surface  of  any  social  organism. 

Wherever  in  the  history  of  the  past  this  type  has  reached 
its  full  development  and  has  comprised  the  bulk  of  the 
females  belonging  to  any  dominant  class  or  race,  it  has 
heralded  its  decay.  In  Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Persia,  as 
in  Turkey  today,  the  same  material  conditions  have  pro- 
duced the  same  social  disease  among  the  wealthy  and 
dominant  races;  and  again  and  again,  when  the  nation 
so  affected  has  come  into  contact  with  nations  more 
healthily  constituted,  this  diseased  condition  has  contrib- 
uted to  its  destruction. 


504  The    Cry   for    Justice 

{From  "Beyond  the  Breakers") 
By  George  Sterling 
(California  poet,  born  1869) 

T  N  Babylon,  high  Babylon, 
■*•       "What  gear  is  bought  and  sold? 
All  merchandise  beneath  the  sun 

That  bartered  is  for  gold; 
Amber  and  oils  from  far  beyond 

The  desert  and  the  fen. 
And  wines  whereof  our  throats  are  fond — ' 

Yea!  and  the  souls  of  men! 

In  Babylon,  grey  Babylon, 

What  goods  are  sold  and  bought? 
Vesture  of  linen  subtly  spun, 

And  cups  from  agate  wrought; 
Raiment  of  many-colored  silk 

For  some  fair  denizen. 
And  ivory  more  white  than  milk — 

Yea!  and  the  souls  of  men!  .  .  . 

In  Babylon,  sad  Babylon, 

What  chattels  shall  invite? 
A  wife  whenas  your  youth  is  done. 

Or  leman  for  a  night. 
Before  Astarte's  portico 

The  torches  flare  again; 
The  shadows  come,  the  shadows  go — 

Yea!  and  the  souls  of  men! 


Mammon  SOS 

In  Babylon,  dark  Babylon, 

Who  take  the  wage  of  shame? 
The  scribe  and  singer,  one  by  one, 

That  toil  for  gold  and  fame. 
They  grovel  to  their  masters'  mood, 

The  blood  upon  the  pen 
Assigns  their  souls  to  servitude — 

Yea!  and  the  souls  of  men! 


SDinner  a  la  '^anso 

By  Edwin  Bjorkman 
(American  critic,  born  in  Sweden  1866) 

TT  is  after  eight  o'clock  in  one  of  the  smaller  dining- 
^   rooms  of  a  fashionable  New  York  hotel.     The  middle 
of  the  room  is  cleared  for  dancing.     At  one  end  a  small 
orchestra  is  working  furiously  at  a  melody  that  affects  I 
the  mind  like  the  triple-distilled  essence  of  nervous  unrest.   V 
Every  table  is  occupied  by  merry  groups  of  men  and 
women  in  evening  dress.     Above  our  heads  are  strung 
almost  invisible  wires,   to  which   are  attached   colored 
lanterns,   gaudy    mechanical    butterflies,   and   huge    red 
and  green  toy  balloons.     Just  as  we  enter,  a  stoutish, 
heavy-faced  chap  with  a  monocle  slaps  the  next  man 
on  the  back  and  cries  out: 
"We  must  be  gay,  old  boy!" 

The  open  square  in  the  middle  is  filled  with  dancers. 
They  trip  and  slide  and  dip.  They  side-step  and  back- 
step  and  gyrate.  They  wave  their  arms  hke  pump- 
handles,  or  raise  them  skyward,  palm  to  palm,  as  if  in 
prayer.     There  are  among  them  young  girls  with  shining 


506  The    Cry   for    Justice 

faces  full  of  inarticulate  desire;  simpering  young  men 
with  a  leer  lurking  at  the  bottom  of  their  vacant  stares; 
stiff-legged  and  white-haired  old  men  with  drooping  eye- 
lids; and  stern-jawed  matrons  with  hand-made  faces  of  a 
startling  purple  hue.  But  on  every  face,  young  or  old, 
bright  or  dull,  there  beams  a  smile  or  clings  a  smirk,  for 
the  spirit  of  the  place  demands  gaiety  at  any  price. 

On  the  tables  are  strewn  gaily  trimmed  packages  that 
open  with  a  report,  and  yield  up  gaily  colored  paper 
caps.  Rubicund  gentlemen  place  the  caps  over  their 
bald  spots,  while  women  pick  the  big  butterflies  to  pieces, 
and  put  the  fragments  into  their  hair  until  they  look 
like  barbarous  princesses.  Men  and  women  drink  and 
dance,  feast  and  flirt,  sing  and  laugh  and  shout.  .  .  . 

Gay  is  the  scene  indeed:  gay  the  music  and  the  laughter; 
gay  the  wine  that  sparkles  in  the  glasses;  gay  the  swirling, 
swaying  maze  of  dancing  couples ;  gay  the  bright  balloons 
and  brilliant  dresses  of  the  women.  And  it  is  as  if  my 
mind's  eye  saw  these  words  written  in  burning  letters  on 
the  wall: 

Leave  care  behind,  all  ye  that  enter  here! 

But  out  there  on  Fifth  Avenue  a  lot  of  unkempt, 
unreasonable  men  and  women  are  marching  savagely 
behind  a  black  flag. 


Mammon  507 

(B\ii\0  ot  (15oIti 

By  William  Shakespeare 
(See  pages  181,  492) 

/^  THOU  sweet  king  killer,  and  dear  divorce 

^~^     'Twixt  natural  son  and  sire!  thou  bright  defiler 

Of  Hymen's  purest  bed!  thou  valiant  Mars; 

Thou  ever  young,  fresh,  loved,  and  delicate  wooer, 

Whose  blush  doth  thaw  the  consecrated  snow 

That  lies  on  Dian's  lap!  thou  visible  god. 

That  solder'st  close  impossibilities. 

And  mak'st  them  kiss;  that  speak'st  with  every  tongue, 

To  every  purpose!     0  thou  touch  of  hearts! 

Think,  thy  slave,  man,  rebels;  and  by  thy  virtue 

Set  them  into  confounding  odds,  that  beasts 

May  have  the  world  in  empire. 


By  Thoestein  Veblen 
(American  university  professor) 

''  I  "HE  function  of  dress  as  an  evidence  of  ability  to 
^  pay  does  not  end  with  simply  showing  that  the 
wearer  consimaes  valuable  goods  in  excess  of  what  is  re- 
quired for  physical  comfort.  Simple  conspicuous  waste 
of  goods  is  effective  and  gratifying  as  far  as  it  goes;  it 
is  good  prima  fade  evidence  of  pecuniary  success,  and 
consequently  prima  facie  evidence  of  social  worth.  But 
dress  has  subtler  and  more  far-reaching  possibilities  than 

*  By  pemussion  of  the  Macmillan  Co. 


508  The    Cry   for    Justice 

this  crude,  first-hand  evidence  of  wasteful  consumption 
only.  If,  in  addition  to  showing  that  the  wearer  can 
afford  to  consume  freely  and  uneconomically,  it  can  also 
be  shown  in  the  same  stroke  that  he  or  she  is  not  under 
the  necessity  of  earning  a  livehhood,  the  evidence  of  social 
worth  is  enhanced  in  a  very  considerable  degree.  Our 
dress,  therefore,  in  order  to  serve  its  purpose  effectually, 
should  not  only  be  expensive,  but  it  should  also  make 
plain  to  all  observers  that  the  wearer  is  not  engaged  in 
any  kind  of  productive  labor.  In  the  evolutionary  pro- 
cess by  which  our  system  of  dress  has  been  elaborated 
into  its  present  admirably  perfect  adaptation  to  its 
purpose,  this  subsidiary  Une  of  evidence  has  received  due 
attention.  A  detailed  examination  of  what  passes  in 
popular  apprehension  for  elegant  apparel  will  show  that 
it  is  contrived  at  every  point  to  convey  the  impression 
that  the  wearer  does  not  habitually  put  forth  any  useful 
effort.  It  goes  without  saying  that  no  apparel  can  be 
considered  elegant,  or  even  decent,  if  it  shows  the  effect 
of  manual  labor  on  the  part  of  the  wearer,  in  the  way 
of  soil  or  wear.  The  pleasing  effect  of  neat  and  spotless 
garments  is  chiefly,  if  not  altogether,  due  to  their  carrying 
the  suggestion  of  leisure — exemption  from  personal  con- 
tact with  industrial  processes  of  any  kind.  Much  of  the 
charm  that  invests  the  patent-leather  shoe,  the  stainless 
hnen,  the  lustrous  cylindrical  hat,  and  the  walking-stick, 
which  so  greatly  enhance  the  native  dignity  of  a  gentle- 
man, comes  of  their  pointedly  suggesting  that  the  wearer 
cannot  when  so  attired  bear  a  hand  in  any  employment 
that  is  directly  and  immediately  of  any  human  use.  .  .  . 
The  dress  of  women  goes  even  farther  than  that  of 
men  in  the  way  of  demonstrating  the  wearer's  abstinence 
from  productive  employment.     It  needs  no  argument  to 


M  ammon  609 

enforce  the  generalization  that  the  more  elegant  styles  of 
feminine  bonnets  go  even  farther  towards  making  work 
impossible  than  does  the  man's  high  hat.  The  woman's 
shoe  adds  the  so-called  French  heel  to  the  evidence  of 
enforced  leism'e  afforded  by  its  polish;  because  this  high 
heel  obviously  makes  any,  even  the  simplest  and  most 
necessary  manual  work  extremely  difficult.  The  like  is 
true  even  in  a  higher  degree  of  the  skirt  and  the  rest 
of  the  drapery  which  characterizes  woman's  dress.  The 
substantial  reason  for  our  tenacious  attachment  to  the 
skirt  is  j  ust  this :  it  is  expensive  and  it  hampers  the  wearer 
at  every  turn  and  incapacitates  her  for  all  useful  exertion. 
The  hke  is  true  of  the  feminine  custom  of  wearing  the  hair 
excessively  long. 

But  the  woman's  apparel  not  only  goes  beyond  that  of 
the  modem  man  in  the  degree  in  which  it  argues  exemp- 
tion from  labor;  it  also  adds  a  pecuhar  and  highly  char- 
acteristic feature  which  differs  in  kind  from  anything 
habitually  practiced  by  the  men.  This  feature  is  the 
class  of  contrivances  of  which  the  corset  is  the  typical 
example.  The  corset  is,  in  economic  theory,  substantially  , 
a  mutilation,  undergone  for  the  purpose  of  lowering  the 
subject's  vitality  and  rendering  her  permanently  and 
obviously  unfit  for  work.  It  is  true,  the  corset  impairs  the 
personal  attractions  of  the  wearer,  but  the  loss  suffered 
on  that  score  is  offset  by  the  gain  in  reputability  which 
comes  of  her  visibly  increased  expensiveness  and  infirmity. 
It  may  broadly  be  set  down  that  the  womanliness  of 
woman's  apparel  resolves  itself,  in  point  of  substantial 
fact,  into  the  more  effective  hindrance  to  useful  exertion  [ 
offered  by  the  garments  peculiar  to  women. 


510  The    Cry   for    Justice 

%^t  l^anitp  of  l^nman  WLi^lt& 

By  Samuel  Johnson 

(English  essayist  and  poet,   1709-1784.      The  poem  from  which 

these  lines  are  taken  is  a  paraphrase  of  the  Roman  poet 

Juvenal) 

BUT,  scarce  observed,  the  knowing  and  the  bold 
Fall  in  the  general  massacre  of  gold; 
Wide  wasting  pest!  that  rages  unconfined. 
And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of  mankind; 
For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian  draws. 
For  gold  the  hireling  judge  distorts  the  laws; 
Wealth  heaped  on  wealth,  nor  truth  nor  safety  buys. 
The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 


Eettctgf  from  a  CSintsfj  flDfficlal 

By  G.  Lowes  Dickinson 

(This  little  book,  pubhshed  anonymously,  was  taken  for  a  genuine 
document  by  many  critics,  among  others,  Mr.  William  Jennings 
Bryan,  who  wrote  an  elaborate  answer  to  it.  The  writer  is  an 
English  university  lecturer) 

WHEN  I  review  my  impressions  of  the  average  Eng- 
lish citizen,  impressions  based  on  many  years' 
study,  what  kind  of  man  do  I  see?  I  see  one  divorced 
from  Nature,  but  unreclaimed  by  Art;  instructed,  but 
not  educated;  assimilative,  but  incapable  of  thought. 
Trained  in  the  tenets  of  a  religion  in  which  he  does  not 
believe — ^for  he  sees  it  flatly  contradicted  in  every  relation 
of  life — he  dimly  feels  that  it  is  prudent  to  conceal  under 
a  mask  of  piety  the  atheism  he  is  hardly  intelligent  eno,ugh 


M  ammon  511 

to  avow.  His  religion  is  conventional;  and,  what  is 
more  important,  his  morals  are  as  conventional  as  his 
creed.  Charity,  chastity,  self-abnegation,  contempt  of 
the  world  and  its  prizes — these  are  the  words  on  which 
he  has  been  fed  from  his  childhood  upward.  And  words 
they  have  remained,  for  neither  has  he  anywhere  seen 
them  practiced  by  others,  nor  has  it  ever  occmred  to  him 
to  practice  them  himself.  Their  influence,  while  it  is 
strong  enough  to  make  him  a  chronic  hypocrite,  is  not 
so  strong  as  to  show  him  the  hypocrite  he  is.  Deprived 
on  the  one  hand  of  the  support  of  a  true  ethical  standard, 
embodied  in  the  life  of  the  society  of  which  he  is  a  mem- 
ber, he  is  duped,  on  the  other,  by  lip-worship  of  an  im- 
potent ideal.  Abandoned  thus  to  his  instinct,  he  is  con- 
tent to  do  as  others  do,  and,  ignoring  the  things  of  the 
spirit,  to  devote  himself  to  material  ends.  He  becomes 
a  mere  tool;  and  of  such  your  society  is  composed.  By 
your  works  you  may  be  known.  Your  triimiphs  in  the 
mechanical  arts  are  the  obverse  of  your  failiu-e  in  all 
that  calls  for  spiritual  insight. 


By  Ralph  Hodgson  : 

(Contemporary  English  poet,  who  publishes  his  work  in  tiny 
pamphlets  with  quaint  illustrations) 

I   SAW  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 
Sold  in  the  shops 

For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 


512  The    Cry   for    Justice 

I  saw  in  vision 

The  worm  in  the  wheat; 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 

For  people  to  eat; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 

Stupidity  Street. 


^d^e  &)oul0  Pf  Blacfc  JFoIft 

By  W.  E.  Burghardt  Du  Bois 

(Professor  in  the  University  of  Atlanta,  born  1868;    a  prominent 
advocate  of  the  rights  of  his  race) 

T  N  the  Black  World,  the  Preacher  and  Teacher  embodied 
■'■  once  the  ideals  of  this  people, — ^the  strife  for  another 
and  a  juster  world,  the  vague  dream  of  righteousness,  the 
mystery  of  knowing;  but  today  the  danger  is  that  these 
ideals,  with  their  simple  beauty  and  weird  inspiration, 
will  sudderdy  sink  to  a  question  of  cash  and  a  lust  for 
gold.  Here  stands  this  black  young  Atalanta,  girding 
herself  for  the  race  that  must  be  run;  and  if  her  eyes 
be  still  toward  the  hills  and  sky  as  in  the  days  of  old, 
then  we  may  look  for  noble  running;  but  what  if  some 
ruthless  or  wily  or  even  thoughtless  Hippomenes  lay 
golden  apples  before  her?  What  if  the  negro  people  be 
wooed  from  a  strife  for  righteousness,  from  a  love  of 
knowing,  to  regard  dollars  as  the  be-all  and  the  end-all 
of  life?  What  if  to  the  Mammonism  of  America  be 
added  the  rising  Mammonism  of  the  re-born  South,  and 
the  Mammonism  of  this  South  be  reinforced  by  the 
budding  Mammonism  of  its  half-awakened  black  millions? 
Whither,  then,  is  the  new-world  quest  of  Goodness  and 
Beauty  and  Truth  gone  glimmering? 


M  amvion  613 

Co=opctation  anli  IJationalitp 

By  "  A.E."  (George  W.  Russell) 
(See  page  252) 

^^ /"HEN  steam  first  began  to  puff  and  wheels  go  round 
*  '  at  so  many  revolutions  per  minute,  the  wild  child 
humanity,  who  had  hitherto  developed  his  civilization  in 
picturesque  unconsciousness  of  where  he  was  going,  and 
without  any  set  plan,  was  caught  and  put  in  harness. 
What  are  called  business  habits  were  invented  to  make 
the  hfe  of  man  run  in  harmony  with  the  steam  engine, 
and  his  movements  rival  the  train  in  punctuality.  The 
factory  system  was  invented,  and  it  was  an  instantaneous 
success.  Men  were  clothed  with  cheapness  and  uni- 
formity. Their  minds  grew  numerously  alike,  cheap  and 
uniform  also.  They  were  at  their  desks  at  nine  o'clock, 
or  at  their  looms  at  six.  They  adjusted  themselves  to  the 
punctual  wheels.  The  rapid  piston  acted  as  pacemaker, 
and  in  England,  which  started  first  in  the  modem  race 
for  wealth,  it  was  an  enormous  advantage  to  have  tire- 
less machines  of  superhiunan  activity  to  make  the  pace, 
and  nerve  men,  women  and  children  to  the  fullest  activity 
possible.  Business  methods  had  a  long  start  in  Eng- 
land, and  irregularity  and  want  of  uniformity  became 
after  a  while  such  exceptions  that  they  were  regarded  as 
deadly  sins.  The  grocer  whose  supplies  of  butter  did  not 
arrive  week  after  week  by  the  same  train,  at  the  same 
hour,  and  of  the  same  quality,  of  the  same  color,  the 
same  saltness,  and  in  the  same  kind  of  box,  quarrelled  with 
the  wholesaler,  who  in  his  turn  quarrelled  with  the  pro- 
ducer. Only  the  most  machine-like  race  could  win  custom. 
After  a  while  every  country  felt  it  had  to  be  drilled  or 

33 


514  The    Cry   for    Justice 

become  extinct.  Some  made  themselves  into  machines 
to  enter  the  English  market,  some  to  preserve  their  own 
markets.  Even  the  indolent  Oriental  is  getting  keyed  up, 
and  in  another  fifty  years  the  Bedouin  of  the  desert  will 
be  at  his  desk  and  the  wild  horseman  of  Tartary  will  be 
oiling  his  engines. 


'd^t  Communist  S@ani£f0to 

By  Karl  Mahx  and  Feederick  Engels 
(Published  in  1848,  the  charter  of  the  modern  Socialist  movement) 

'  I  ^HE  bourgeoisie,  wherever  it  has  got  the  upper  hand, 
■'-  has  put  an  end  to  all  feudal,  patriarchal,  idylhc 
relations.  It  has  pitilessly  torn  asunder  the  motley  feudal 
ties  that  bound  man  to  his  "natural  superiors,"  and  has 
left  remaining  no  other  nexus  between  man  and  man 
than  naked  self-interest,  than  callous  "cash  payment." 
It  has  drowned  the  most  heavenly  ecstasies  of  religious 
fervor,  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm,  of  philistine  sentimental- 
ism,  in  the  icy  water  of  egotistical  calculation.  It  has 
resolved  personal  worth  into  exchange  value,  and  in  place 
of  the  numberless  indefeasible  chartered  freedoms,  has  set 
up  that  single,  unconscionable  freedom — Free  Trade. 


Mammon  515 

i^ortrait  ot  an  American 

By  Louis  Untekmeyer 
(See  pages  42,  418) 

T TE  slobbers  over  sentimental  plays 

■'■    ■•■     And  sniffles  over  sentimental  songs. 
He  tells  you  often  how  he  sadly  longs 

For  the  ideals  of  the  dear  old  days. 

In  gatherings  he  is  the  first  to  raise 

His  voice  against  "our  country's  shameful  wrongs." 
He  storms  at  greed.     His  hard,  flat  tone  prolongs 

The  hjTnns  and  mumbled  platitudes  of  praise. 

I  heard  him  in  his  office  Friday  past. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "their  talk  is  all  a  bluff; 
You  mark  my  words,  this  thing  will  never  last. 

Let  them  walk  out — they'll  come  back  quick  enough. 
We'll  have  all  hands  at  work — and  working  fast! 

How  do  they  think  we're  running  this- — for  lovef" 


By  J.  PiERPONT  Morgan 

(American  banker;   testimony  before  the  United  States  Commission 
on  Industrial  Relations) 

QUESTION:    Do   you   consider  ten   dollars   a  week 
enough  for  a  'longshoreman  with  a  family  to  support? 
Answer:    If  that's  all  he  can  get,  and  he  takes  it,  I 
should  say  it's  enough. 


516  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Harold  Monro 
(Contemporary  English  poet) 

T TE'S  something  in  the  city.     Who  shall  say 

■'■    -*•     His  fortune  was  not  honorably  won? 
Few  people  can  afford  to  give  away 
As  he,  or  help  the  poor  as  he  has  done. 

Neat  in  his  habits,  temperate  in  his  life : 
Oh,  who  shall  dare  his  character  besmirch? 

He  scarcely  ever  quarrels  with  his  wife, 
And  every  Sabbath  strictly  goes  to  church. 

He  helps  the  village  club,  and  in  the  town 

Attends  parochial  meetings  once  a  week, 
Pays  for  each  purchase  ready-money  down : 

Is  anyone  against  him? — Who  will  speak? 

There  is  a  widow  somewhere  in  the  north, 

On  whom  slow  ruin  gradually  fell. 
While  she,  believing  that  her  God  was  wroth, 

Suffered  without  a  word — or  she  might  tell. 

And  there's  a  beggar  somewhere  in  the  west, 

Whose  fortune  vanished  gradually  away: 
Now  he  but  drags  his  limbs  in  horror  lest 

Starvation  feed  on  them — or  he  might  say. 

And  there  are  children  stricken  with  disease. 

Too  ignorant  to  curse  him,  or  too  weak. 
In  a  true  portrait  of  him  all  of  these 

Must  figure  in  the  background — ^they  shall  speak. 


M  ammon  517 

ilJcto  i^arfetwgf  of  &in 

{From  "Sin  and  Society") 

By  Edwaed  Alswoeth  Ross 

(American  college  professor,  born  1866,  a  prominent  advocate  of 
academic  freedom) 

nPODAY  the  sacrifice  of  life  incidental  to  quick  suc- 
^  cess  rarely  calls  for  the  actual  spilling  of  blood. 
How  decent  are  the  pale  slayings  of  the  quack,  the 
adulterator,  and  the  purveyor  of  polluted  water,  com- 
pared with  the  red  slayings  of  the  vulgar  bandit  or  assassin! 
Even  if  there  is  blood-letting,  the  long-range,  tentacular 
natm-e  of  modern  homicide  ehminates  all  personal  col- 
hsion.  What  an  abyss  between  the  knife-play  of  brawlers 
and  the  law-defying  neglect  to  fence  dangerous  machinery 
in  a  mill,  or  to  furnish  cars  with  safety  couplers!  The  pro- 
viding of  unsuspecting  passengers  with  "cork"  life-pre- 
servers secretly  loaded  with  bars  of  iron  to  make  up  for 
their  deficiency  in  weight  of  cork,  is  spiritually  akin  to 
the  treachery  of  Joab,  who,  taking  Amasa  by  the  beard 
"to  kiss  him,"  smote  Amasa  "in  the  fifth  rib";  but  it 
wears  a  very  different  aspect.  The  ciurent  methods  of 
aimexing  the  property  of  others  are  characterized  by  a 
pleasing  indirectness  and  refinement.  The  furtive,  appre- 
hensive manner  of  the  till-tapper  or  the  porch-climber 
would  jar  disagreeably  upon  the  tax-dodger  "swearing 
off"  his  property,  or  the  city  official  concealing  a  "rake- 
off"  in  his  specifications  for  a  public  building.  The  work 
of  the  card-sharp  and  the  thimblerigger  shocks  a  type  of 
man  that  will  not  stick  at  the  massive  "artistic  swindling" 
of  the  contemporary  promoter.  .  .  . 

One  might  suppose  that  an  exasperated  pubhc  would 


518  The    Cry   for    Justice 

sternly  castigate  these  modern  sins.  But  the  fact  is, 
the  very  qualities  that  lull  the  conscience  of  the  sinner 
blind  the  eyes  of  the  on-lookers.  People  are  sentimental, 
and  bastinado  wrong-doing  not  according  to  its  harmful- 
ness,  but  according  to  the  infamy  that  has  come  to  attach 
to  it.  Undiscerning,  they  chastise  with  scorpions  the 
old  authentic  sins,  but  spare  the  new.     They  do  not  see 

irthat  boodling  is  treason,  that  blackmail  is  piracy,  that 
I'fembezzlement  is  theft,  that  speculation  is  gambling,  that 
tax  dodging  is  larceny,   that  railroad   discrimination  is 

/  treachery,  that  the  factory  labor  of  children  is  slavery, 
that  deleterious  adulteration  is  murder.  It  has  not  come 
home  to  them  that  the  fraudulent  promoter  "devours 
widows'  houses,"  that  the  monopolist  "grinds  the  faces 
of  the  poor,"  that  mercenary  editors  and  spellbinders 
"put  bitter  for  sweet  and  sweet  for  bitter."  The  cloven 
hoof  hides  in  patent  leather;  and  to-day,  as  in  Hosea's 
time,  the  people  "are  destroyed  for  lack  of  knowledge." 
The  mob  lynches  the  red-handed  slayer,  when  it  ought 
to  keep  a  gallows  Haman-high  for  the  venal  mine  in- 
spector, the  seller  of  infected  milk,  the  maintainer  of  a 
fire-trap  theatre.  The  child-beater  is  forever  blasted  in 
reputation,  but  the  exploiter  of  infant  toil,  or  the  con- 
cocter  of  a  soothing  syrup  for  the  drugging  of  babies, 
stands  a  pillar  of  society.  The  petty  shoplifter  is  more 
abhorred  than  the  stealer  of  a  franchise,  and  the  wife- 
whipper  is  outcast  long  before  the  man  who  sends  his 
over-insured  ship  to  founder  with  its  crew. 


M  ammon  619 


By  Jack  London 

FAR  better  to  have  the  front  of  one's  face  pushed  in 
by  the  fist  of  an  honest  prize-fighter  than  to  have 
the  hning  of  one's  stomach  corroded  by  the  embalmed 
beef  of  a  dishonest  manufacturer. 


By  H.  G.  Wells 

(English  novelist,  born  1866;  author  of  many  strange  romances 
of  modern  science,  and  later,  of  penetrating  studies  of  social  injustice 
and  hypocrisy.  The  present  novel  tells  of  the  career  of  a  financial 
potentate  who  begins  life  with  a  patent-medicine  business) 

It  was  my  uncle's  genius  that  did  it.  No  doubt  he 
■'■  needed  me — I  was,  I  will  admit,  his  indispensable 
right  hand;  but  his  was  the  brain  to  conceive.  He 
wrote  every  advertisement;  some  of  them  even  he 
sketched.  You  must  remember  that  his  were  the  days 
before  the  Times  took  to  enterprise  and  the  vociferous 
hawking  of  that  antiquated  Encyclopaedia.  That  allur- 
ing, button-holing,  let-me-just-tell-you-quite-soberly-some- 
thing-you-ought-to-know  style  of  newspaper  advertise- 
ment, with  every  now  and  then  a  convulsive  jump  of 
some  attractive  phrase  into  capitals,  was  then  almost 
a  novelty.  "Many  people  who  are  MODERATELY 
well  think  they  are  QUITE  well,"  was  one  of  his  early 
efforts.  The  jerks  in  capitals  were,  "DO  NOT  NEED 
DRUGS  OR  MEDICINE,"  and  "SIMPLY  A  PROPER 
REGIMEN  TO  GET  YOU  IN  TONE."  One  was 
warned  against  the  chemist  or  druggist  who  pushed 
"much-advertised  nostrums"  on  one's  attention.     That 


620  The    Cry   for    Justice 

trash  did  more  harm  than  good.  The  thing  needed  was 
regimen — and  Tono-Bungay! 

Very  early,  too,  was  that  bright  little  quarter  column, 
at  least  it  was  usually  a  quarter  column  in  the  evening 
papers:  "HILARITY— TONO-BUNGAY.  Like  Moun- 
tain Air  in  the  Veins."  The  penetrating  trio  of  ques- 
tions: "Are'  you  bored  with  your  Business?  Are  you 
bored  with  your  Dinner?  Are  you  bored  with  your  Wife?" 
• — that,  too,  was  in  our  Gower  Street  days.  Both  these 
we  had  in  our  first  campaign  when  we  worked  London 
south,  central,  and  west;  and  then,  too,  we  had  our  first 
poster,— the  HEALTH,  BEAUTY  AND  STRENGTH 
one.  That  was  his  design;  I  happen  still  to  have  got 
by  me  the  first  sketch  he  made  for  it.  .  .  . 

By  all  modern  standards  the  business  was,  as  my  uncle 
would  say,  "absolutely  hona  fide."  We  sold  our  stuff 
and  got  the  money,  and  spent  the  money  honestly  in 
lies  and  clamor  to  sell  more  stuff.  Section  by  section 
we  spread  it  over  the  whole  of  the  British  Isles;  first 
working  the  middle-class  London  suburbs,  then  the  outer 
suburbs,  then  the  home  comities,  then  going  (with  new 
bills  and  a  more  pious  style  of  "ad")  into  Wales,  a  great 
field  always  for  a  new  patent-medicine,  and  then  into 
Lancashire.  My  uncle  had  in  his  inner  office  a  big  map 
of  England,  and  as  we  took  up  fresh  sections  of  the  local 
press  and  om-  consignments  invaded  new  areas,  flags  for 
advertisements  and  pink  underlines  for  orders  showed  our 
progress. 

"The  romance  of  modern  commerce,  George!"  my  uncle 
would  say,  rubbing  his  hands  together  and  drawing  in 
air  through  his  teeth.  "The  romance  of  modem  com- 
merce, eh?  Conquest.  Province  by  Province.  Like 
sogers." 


M  ammon  621 

We  subjugated  England  and  Wales;  we  rolled  over 
the  Cheviots  with  a  special  adaptation  containiag  eleven 
per  cent,  of  absolute  alcohol;  "Tono-Bungay:  Thistle 
Brand."  We  also  had  the  Fog  poster  adapted  to  a  kilted 
Briton  in  a  misty  Highland  scene.  .  .  . 

As  I  look  back  at  them  now,  those  energetic  years 
seem  all  compacted  to  a  year  or  so;  from  the  days  of 
our  first  hazardous  beginning  in  Farrington  Street  with 
barely  a  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  stuff  or  credit  all 
told — and  that  got  by  something  perilously  like  snatch- 
ing— to  the  days  when  my  imcle  went  to  the  public  on 
behalf  of  himself  and  me  (one-tenth  share)  and  our  silent 
partners,  the  drug  wholesalers  and  the  printing  people 
and  the  owner  of  that  group  of  magazines  and  newspapers, 
to  ask  with  honest  confidence  for  £150,000.  Those  silent 
partners  were  remarkably  sorry,  I  know,  that  they  had 
not  taken  larger  shares  and  given  us  longer  credit  when 
the  subscriptions  came  pouring  in.  My  uncle  had  a 
clear  half  to  play  with  (including  the  one-tenth  under- 
stood to  be  mine). 

£150,000 — think  of  it! — for  the  goodwill  in  a  string 
of  lies  and  a  trade  in  bottles  of  mitigated  water!  Do 
you  realize  the  madness  of  the  world  that  sanctions  such 
a  thing?  Perhaps  you  don't.  At  times  use  and  wont 
certainly  blinded  me.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Ewart, 
I  don't  think  I  should  have  had  an  inkling  of  the  wonder- 
fulness  of  this  development  of  my  fortunes;  I  should 
have  grown  accustomed  to  it,  fallen  in  with  all  its  delu- 
sions as  completely  as  my  uncle  presently  did.  He  was 
immensely  proud  of  the  flotation.  "They've  never  been 
given  such  value,"  he  said,  "for  a  dozen  years."  But 
Ewart,  with  his  gesticulating  hairy  hands  and  bony 
wrists,  is  single-handed  'chorus   to  all  this  as  it  plays 


52%  The    Cry   for    Justice 

itself  over  again  in  my  memory,  and  he  kept  my  funda- 
mental absurdity  illuminated  for  me  during  all  this  aston- 
ishing time. 

"It's  just  on  all  fours  with  the  rest  of  things,"  he 
remarked;  "only  more  so.  You  needn't  think  you're 
anything  out  of  the  way." 


fil^an  tfit  'B.tUtmzt 

By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 
(See  page  235) 

IT  is  only  necessary  to  ask  a  few  questions  as  to  the 
progress  of  the  articles  of  commerce  from  the  fields 
where  they  grew,  to  our  houses,  to  become  aware  that 
we  eat  and  drink  and  wear  perjury  and  fraud  in  a  htm- 
dred  commodities.  We  are  all  implicated  in  this  charge. 
The  sins  of  our  trade  belong  to  no  class,  to  no  individual. 
Everybody  partakes,  everybody  confesses,  yet  none  feels 
himself  accountable.  The  trail  of  the  serpent  reaches 
into  all  the  lucrative  professions  and  practices  of  man. 
Nay,  the  evil  custom  reaches  into  the  whole  institution 
of  property,  until  our  laws  which  establish  and  protect  it 
seem  not  to  be  the  issue  of  love  and  reason,  but  of 
selfishness. 


M  ammon 


^0  a  Cettain  K(c8  goung  lR,uUr 

By  Clement  Wood 

(A  sonnet  which  was  widely  circulated  at  the  time  of  the  Colorado 
coal-strike  of  1913-14) 

'^TL  7'HITE-FINGERED  lord  of  murderous  events, 
*  '       Well  are  you  guarding  what  your  father  gained; 
With  torch  and  rifle  you  have  well  maintained 

The  lot  to  which  a  heavenly  providence 

Has  called  you;  laborers,  risen  in  defense 
Of  liberty  and  life,  lie  charred  and  brained 
About  your  mines,  whose  gutted  hills  are  stained 

With  slaughter  of  these  newer  innocents. 

Ah,  but  your  bloody  fingers  clenched  in  prayer! 

Your  piety,  which  all  the  world  has  seen! 
The  godly  odor  spreading  through  the  air 

From  your  efficient  charity  machine! 
Thus  you  rehearse  for  your  high  rdle  up  there, 

Ruling  beside  the  lowly  Nazarene! 


Feom  the  Politics  of  Aristotle 
(See  page  480) 

A  TYRANT  must  put  on  the  appearance  of  imcommon 
devotion  to  rehgion.  Subjects  are  less  apprehensive 
of  illegal  treatment  from  a  ruler  whom  they  consider  god- 
fearing and  pious.  On  the  other  hand,  they  do  less  easily 
move  against  him,  believing  that  he  has  the  gods  on  his 
side. 


521^  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Amos 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.  C.  760) 

T  HATE,  I  despise  your  feasts,  and  I  will  take  no 
■^  delight  in  your  solemn  assemblies.  Yea,  though  you 
offer  me  your  biu-nt  offerings  and  meal  offerings,  I  will 
not  accept  them;  neither  will  I  regard  the  peace  offerings 
of  your  fat  beasts.  Take  thou  away  from  me  the  noise 
of  thy  songs;  for  I  will  not  hear  the  melody  of  thy  viols. 
But  let  judgment  roll  down  as  waters,  and  righteousness 
as  a  mighty  stream. 


Comerninff  CJarftp 

By  John  R.  Lawson  ^' 

(Part  of  a  statement  before  the  United  States  Commission  on 
Industrial  Relations,  1915.  The  writer  was  the  representative  of 
the  miners  in  charge  of  the  Colorado  strike,  and  went  to  work  as  a 
pit-boy  at  the  age  of  eight) 

I  "HERE   is    another    cause    of    industrial    discontent. 

•*•  This  is  the  skillful  attempt  that  is  being  made  to 
substitute  Philanthropy  for  Justice.  There  is  not  one  of 
these  foundations,  now  spreading  their  millions  over  the 
world  in  showy  generosity,  that  does  not  draw  those 
millions  from  some  form  of  industrial  injustice.  It  is 
not  their  money  that  these  lords  of  commercialized  virtue 
are  spending,  but  the  withheld  wages  of  the  American 
working-class. 

I  sat  in  this  room  and  heard  a  great  philanthropist 
read  the  list  of  activities  of  his  Foundation  "to  promote 
the  well-being  of  mankind."  An  international  health 
commission  to  extend  to  foreign  countries  and  peoples 


M  ammon  625 

the  work  of  eradicating  the  hookworm;  the  promotion 
of  medical  education  and  health  in  China;  the  investi- 
gations of  vice  conditions  in  Europe;  one  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  for  the  American  Academy  in  Rome,  twenty 
thousand  a  year  for  widows'  pensions  in  New  York,  one 
million  for  the  relief  of  Belgians,  thirty-four  millions  for 
the  University  of  Chicago,  thirty-four  naillions  for  a  Gen- 
eral Education  Board.  A  wave  of  horror  swept  over  me 
during  that  reading,  and  I  say  to  you  that  that  same 
wave  is  now  rushing  over  the  entire  working-class  of  the 
United  States.  Health  for  China,  a  refuge  for  birds  in 
Louisiana,  food  for  the  Belgians,  pensions  for  New  York 
widows,  university  training  for  the  elect — and  never  a 
thought  or  a  dollar  for  the  many  thousands  of  men, 
women  and  children  who  starved  in  Colorado,  for  the 
widows  robbed  of  husbands  and  children  of  their  fathers, 
by  law-violating  conditions  in  the  mines.  There  are 
thousands  of  this  great  philanthropist's  former  employees 
in  Colorado  today  who  wish  to  God  that  they  were  in 
Belgium  to  be  fed,  or  birds  to  be  cared  for  tenderly. 


CrotolJgs  \ 

By  Gerald  Stanley  Lee    \ 
(Contemporary  American  author  and  lecturer,  formerly  a  clergyman) 

AS  I  have  watched  my  fellow  human  beings,  what  I 
•  have  come  to  want  most  of  all  in  this  world  is  the 
inspired  employer — or  what  I  have  called  the  inspired 
milUonaire  or  organizer;  the  man  who  can  take  the  ma- 
chmes  off  the  backs  of  the  people,  and  take  the  machines 
out  of  their  wits,  and  make  the  machines  free  their  bodies 
and  serve  their  souls. 


626  The    Cry   for    Justice 

If  we  ever  have  the  inspired  employer,  he  will  have  to  be 
made  by  the  social  imagination  of  the  people,  by  creating 
the  spirit  of  expectation  and  challenge  toward  the  rich 
among  the  masses  of  the  people.  .  .  . 

Nothing  is  more  visionary  than  trying  to  run  a  world 
without  dreams,  especially  an  economic  world.  It  is 
because  even  bad  dreams  are  better  in  this  world  than 
having  no  dreams  at  all  that  bad  people  so-called  are  so 
largely  allowed  to  run  it. 

In  the  final  and  practical  sense,  the  one  factor  in  eco- 
nomics to  be  reckoned  with  is  Desire. 


\ 


By  Lincoln  Steffens 


(American  writer  upon  social  problems,  born  1866.  A  story  of  the 
political  leader  of  a  corrupt  city,  who  lies  upon  his  death-bed,  and 
has  asked  to  have  the  meaning  of  his  own  career  made  plain  to  him) 

^  *  AA /"HAT  kind  of  a  kid  were  you.  Boss?"  I  began. 
*  *       "Pretty  tough,  I  guess,"  he  answered. 

"Bom  here?" 

"Yes;  in  the  Third  Ward." 

"Tough  then  as  it  is  now?" 

"Tougher,"  he  said. 

"Produces  toughness  the  way  Kansas  produces  com," 
I  remarked.     "Father?"  I  asked. 

"Kept  a  saloon;  a  driver  before  that." 

"Mother  a  girl  of  the  ward?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "She  was  brought  up  there;  but 
she  came  to  this  country  with  her  father  from  England, 
as  a  baby." 


M  ammon  527 

"What  sort  of  woman  was  she?" 

"Quiet,"  he  said;  "always  still;  silent-like;  a  worker. 
Kept  the  old  man  straight — some;  and  me  too — 's  well 
as  she  could.  She's  th'  one  that  got  him  off  th'  wagon 
and  started  in  th'  Uquor  business." 

"You  were  poor  people?" 

"Yes." 

"And  conunon?" 

"Y-yes-s." 

"A  child  of  the  people,"  I  commented'  "the  common 
people." 

He  nodded,  wondering. 

"One  of  the  great,  friendless  mass  of  helpless  hu- 
manity?" 

He  nodded. 

"That  wasn't  your  fault,  was  it?"  I  said.  "Not  to 
blame  for  that?     That's  not  your  sin,  is  it?" 

He  shook  his  head,  staring,  and  he  was  so  mystified 
that  I  said  that  most  people  were  "pretty  terribly  pun- 
ished for  being  born  poor  and  common."  He  nodded, 
but  he  wasn't  interested  or  enlightened,  apparently. 
"And  you  learned,  somehow,  that  the  thing  to  do  was 
to  get  yourself  on,  get  up  out  of  it,  make  a  success  of 
your  life?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  don't  laxow  how,  but  I  did 
get  that,  somehow." 

"That  was  the  ideal  they  taught  you,"  I  said.  "Never 
heard  of  getting  everybody  on  and  making  a  success  of 
society;   of  the  city  and  State?" 

But  this  hne  of  questioning  was  beyond  him.  I  changed 
my  tack.  .  .  . 

"In  that  first  interview  we  had,"  I  said,  "you  insisted 
that,   while  the  business   boss  was  the  real  boss,   the 


5S8  The    Cry   for    Justice 

sovereign,  you  had  some  power  of  your  own.  And  you 
described  it  today  as  the  backing  of  your  own  ward, 
which,  you  said,  you  had  in  your  pocket.  When  you 
became  boss,  you  got  the  backing,  the  personal  support, 
of  other  wards,  didn't  you?" 

"Seven  of  'em,"  he  coxmted.  "Made  th'  leaders 
myself." 

"And  you  developed  a  big  personal  following  in  other 
wards,  too?" 

"Sure,"  he  said;  "in  every  one  of  them.  I  was  a 
popular  leader;  not  only  a  boss,  but  a  friend  with  friends, 
lots  of  'em.     The  people  liked  me." 

"That's  the  point,"  I  said.     "The  people  liked  you." 

He  nodded  warmly. 

"The  common  people,"  I  went  on,  and  he  was  about 
to  nod,  but  he  didn't.  And  his  fingers  became  still. 
"Your  own  people — the  great  helpless  mass  of  the  friend- 
less mob — hked  you."  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine. 
"They  followed  you;   they  trusted  you." 

I  paused  a  moment,  then  I  asked:  "Didn't  they. 
Boss?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  his  lips  alone. 

"They  didn't  set  a  watch  on  you,  did  they?"  I  con- 
tinued. "They  voted  as  you  bade  them  vote,  elected 
the  fellows  you  put  on  the  tickets  of  their  party  for  them. 
And,  after  they  elected  them,  they  left  it  to  them,  and 
to  you,  to  be  true  to  them;  to  stick  to  them;  to  be 
loyal." 

His  eyes  fell  to  his  fingers,  and  his  fingers  began  again 
to  pick. 

"And  when  your  enemies  got  after  you  and  accused 
you,"  I  said,  "the  people  stuck  by  you?" 

No  answer;  only  the  fingers  picked. 


Mammon  529 

"The  great,  friendless  mass— the  hopeful,  hopeless 
majority— they  were  true  to  you  and  the  party,  and  they 
re-elected  you." 

His  eyes  were  on  mine  again,  and  there  was  light  in 
them;  but  it  was  the  reflected  light  of  fire,  and  it  burned. 

"And  you — ^you  betrayed  them,"  I  said;  and  I  hurried 
on,  piling  on  the  fuel,  all  I  had.  "They  have  power, 
the  people  have,  and  they  have  needs,  great  commcii 
needs;  and  they  have  great  common  wealth.  All  your 
fat,  rich  franchises,  all  your  great  social  values,  the  values 
added  to  land  and  franchise  by  the  presence  of  the  great, 
common,,  numerous  mass,  all  the  city's  public  property — 
all  are  theirs,  their  common  property.  They  own  enough 
in  common  to  meet  all  their  great  common  needs,  and 
they  have  an  organization  to  keep  for  them  and  to 
develop  for  their  use  and  profit  all  these  great  needed 
social  values.  It  is  the  city;  the  city  government;  city. 
State,  and  national.  And  they  have,  they  breed  in  their 
own  ranks,  men  like  you,  natural  political  leaders,  to  go 
into  public  life  and  lead  them,  teach  them,  represent 
them.  And  they  leave  it  all  to  you,  trusting  you.  And 
you,  all  of  you — not  you  alone.  Boss,  but  all  of  you: 
ward  leaders;  i?tate  leaders;  all  the  national  political 
bosses — ^you  all  betray  them.  You  receive  from  them 
their  votes,  so  faithfully  given,  and  you  transform  them 
into  office-holders  whom  you  teach  or  corrupt  and  com- 
pel to  obey  you.  So  you  reorganize  the  city  government. 
You,  not  the  Mayor,  are  the  head  of  it;  you,  not  the 
council,  are  its  legislature;  you,  not  the  heads  of  depart- 
ments, are  the  administrators  of  the  property  and  the 
powers  of  the  people  of  your  city;  the  common,  helpless, 
friendless  people.  And,  having  thus  organized  and  taken 
over  all  this  power  and  property  and — this  beautiful  faith, 

34 


530  The    Cry   for    Justice 

you  do  not  protect  their  rights  and  their  property.  What 
do  you  do  with  it,  Boss?" 

He  started.  He  could  not  answer.  I  answered  for 
him: 

"You  sell  'em  out;  you  turn  over  the  whole  thing — 
the  city,  its  property,  and  its  people — to  Business,  to  the 
big  fellows;  to  the  business  leaders  of  the  people.  You 
deliver,  not  only  franchises,  privileges,  private  rights  and 
public  properties,  and  values.  Boss:  you — all  of  you 
together — have  delivered  the  government  itself  to  these 
men,  so  that  today  this  city,  this  State,  and  the  national 
government  represent,  normally,  not  the  people,  not  the 
great  mass  of  common  folk,  who  need  protection,  but — 
Business;  preferably  ba!d  business;  privileged  business; 
a  class;  a  privileged  class." 

He  had  sunk  back  among  the  pillows,  his  eyes  closed, 
his  fingers  still.     I  sounded  him. 

"That's  the  system,"  I  repeated.  "It's  an  organiza- 
tion of  social  treason,  and  the  political  boss  is  the  chief 
traitor.  It  couldn't  stand  without  the  submission  of  the 
people;  the  real  bosses  have  to  get  that.  They  can't 
buy  the  people — too  many  of  them;  so  they  buy  the 
people's  leaders,  and  the  disloyalty  of  the  political  boss 
is  the  key  to  the  whole  thing." 

These  was  no  response.     I  plumbed  him  again. 

"And  you — ^you  believe  in  loyalty,  Boss,"  I  said — 
"in  being  true  to  yoxu- own."  His  eyes  opened.  "That's 
your  virtue,  you  say,  and  you  said,  too,  that  you  have 
practiced  it." 

"Don't,"  he  murmured. 


M  amnion  631 

^  Ballati  of  SDeaH  (16irl0 

By  Dana  Burnet 
(American  poet,  bom  1888) 

OCARCE  had  they  brought  the  bodies  down 
^*-'     Across  the  withered  floor, 
Than  Max  Rogosky  thundered  at 
The  District  Leader's  door. 

Scarce  had  the  white-lipped  mothers  come 

To  search  the  fearful  noon, 
Than  little  Max  stood  shivering 

In  Tom  McTodd's  saloon! 

In  Tom  McTodd's  saloon  he  stood, 

Beside  the  silver  bar. 
Where  any  honest  lad  may  stand, 

And  sell  his  vote  at  par. 

"Ten  years  I've  paid  the  System's  tax," 

The  words  fell,  quivering,  raw; 
"And  now  I  want  the  thing  I  bought — 

Protection  from  the  law!" 

The  Leader  smiled  a  twisted  smile : 

"Your  doors  were  locked,"  he  said. 
"  You've  overstepped  the  hmit.  Max — 

A  hundred  women.  .  .  .  dead!" 

Then  Max  Rogosky  gripped  the  bar 

And  shivered  where  he  stood. 
"You  hsten  now  to  me,"  he  cried, 

"Like  business  fellers  should! 


532  The    Cry   for    Justice 

"I've  paid  for  all  my  hundred  dead, 

I've  paid,  I've  paid,  I've  paid." 
His  ragged  laughter  rang,  and  died — 

For  he  was  sore  afraid. 

"I've  paid  for  wooden  hall  and  stair, 

I've  paid  to  strain  my  floors, 
I've  paid  for  rotten  fire-escapes, 

For  all  my  bolted  doors. 

"Your  fat  inspectors  came  and  came — 

I  crossed  their  hands  with  gold. 
And  now  I  want  the  thing  I  bought. 

The  thing  the  System  sold." 

The  District  Leader  filled  a  glass 

With  whiskey  from  the  bar, 
(The  httle  silver  counter  where 

He  bought  men's  souls  at  par.) 

And  well  he  knew  that  he  must  give 

The  thing  that  he  had  sold. 
Else  men  should  doubt  the  System's  word, 

Keep  back  the  System's  gold. 

The  whiskey  burned  beneath  his  tongue: 

"A  hundred  women  dead! 
I  guess  the  Boss  can  fix  it  up, 

Go  home — and  hide,"  he  said. 

All  day  they  brought  the  bodies  down 

From  Max  Rogosky's  place — 
And  oh,  the  fearful  touch  of  flame 

On  hand  and  breast  and  face! 


jNIAAIAION 

george  frederick  watts 

(English  paitikr,  mciiilivr  of  the  Royal  Aauhiiiij.  1817-1904) 


M  ammon  533 

All  day  the  white-lipped  mothers  came 

To  search  the  sheeted  dead; , 
And  Horror  strode  the  blackened  walls. 

Where  Death  had  walked  in  red. 

But  Max  Rogosky  did  not  weep. 

(He  knew  that  tears  were  vain.) 
He  paid  the  System's  price,  and  lived 

To  lock  his  doors  again. 


T 


By  William  Shakespeare 
(See  pages  181,  492,  507) 

HE  strongest  castle,  tower  and  town. 
The  golden  bullet  beats  it  down. 


By  May  Beals 
(A  tragedy  at  Coal  Creek,  Tennessee,  May  19,  1902) 

THE  lord  of  us  he  lay  in  his  bed — 
Good  right  had  he,  good  right ! 
But  we  were  up  before  night  had  fled, 
Out  to  the  mine  in  the  dawning  red; 
Slaves  were  we  all,  by  hunger  led 
Into  the  land  of  night. 

The  master  knew  of  our  danger  well, 

We  also  knew — we  knew. 
His  greed  for  profits  had  served  him  well, 


534  The    Cry   for    Justice 

But  he  over-reached  him,  as  fate  befell, 
And  I  alone  am  left  to  tell. 

Death's  horrors  I  lived  through 

The  master  dreamed,  mayhap,  of  his  gold, 

But  we  were  awake — awake, 
Buried  alive  in  the  black  earth's  mold; 
And  some  who  yet  could  a  pencil  hold. 
Wrote  till  their  hands  in  death  grew  cold, 

For  wife  or  sweetheart's  sake. 

Letters  they  wrote  of  farewell — farewell. 

To  mother,  sweetheart,  wife: 
What  words  of  comfort  could  they  tell — 
Comfort  for  those  who  loved  them  well. 
Up  from  the  jaws  of  the  earth's  black  hell 

That  was  crushing  out  their  life. 

The  master  cursed,  as  masters  do — 

Good  right  had  he,  good  right ! 
But  the  fear  of  our  vengeance  stirred  him,  too; 
He  sailed,  with  some  of  his  pirate  crew, 
To  Europe,  and  reveled  a  year  or  two; 

Great  might  has  he — great  might  I 


Mammon  535 

EomancE 

By  Setmoue  Deming 

(Contemporary  American  writer) 

nPHE  old  idea  of  romance:    The  country  boy  goes  to 
■'■     the  city,  marries  his  employer's  daughter,  enslaves 
some   himdreds   of  his   fellow  humans,   gets  rich,  and 
leaves  a  public  library  to  his  home  town. 

The  new  idea  of  romance:    To   undo  some  of  the 
mischief  done  by  the  old  idea  of  romance. 


'E^t  S»Dur0  Crtanli 

By  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 

(Written  by  the  English  soldier  and  statesman,   1552-1618,  just 
before  his  execution) 

GO,  Soul,  the  body's  guest. 
Upon  a  thankless  errand; 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant: 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Go  tell  the  Court  it  glows 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood; 
Go  tell  the  Church  it  shows 
What's  good,  but  does  no  good: 
If  Court  and  Church  reply 
Give  Court  and  Church  the  lie. 


586  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Tell  Potentates  they  live 

Acting,  but  oh!  their  actions; 
Not  loved,  unless  they  give, 
Nor  strong  but  by  their  factions: 
If  Potentates  reply. 
Give  Potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  rule  affairs  of  state. 
Their  purpose  is  ambition; 
Their  practice  only  hate: 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  He.  .  .  . 

Tell  Physic  of  her  boldness; 

Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension; 

Tell  Charity  of  coldness; 

Tell  Law  it  is  contention: 

And  if  they  yield  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  he.  .  .  . 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing; 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing: 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will. 
No  stab  the  Soul  can  kill. 


M  ammon  537 

^tttvx\itt  31 0t 

By  Lascelles  Aberckombie 
(Contemporary  English  poet) 

WHAT  is  he  hammering  there, 
That  devil  swinking  in  Hell? 
Oh,  he  forges  a  cunning  New  Year, 
God  knows  he  does  it  well. 

Mill  and  harrow  and  rake, 

A  restless  enginery 
Of  men  and  women  to  make 

Cruelty,  Harlotry. 


feiigfttrgf  of  tfic  CrogSgf  of  fefiamj 

By  Dana  Burnet  ' 

(See  page  531) 

THE  Sisters  of  the  Cross  of  Shame, 
They  smile  along  the  night; 
Their  houses  stand  with  shuttered  souls 
And  painted  eyes  of  Ught. 

Their  houses  look  with  scarlet  eyes 

Upon  a  world  of  sin; 
And  every  man  cries,  "Woe,  alas!" 

And  every  man  goes  in. 

The  sober  Senate  meets  at  noon, 

To  pass  the  Woman's  Law, 
The  portly  Churchmen  vote  to  stem 

The  torrent  with  a  straw. 


538  The    Cry   for    Justice 

The  Sister  of  the  Cross  of  Shame, 

She  smiles  beneath  her  cloud — 
(She  does  not  laugh  till  ten  o'clock, 

And  then  she  laughs  too  loud.) 

And  still  she  hears  the  throb  of  feet 

Upon  the  scarlet  stair. 
And  still  she  dons  the  cloak  of  shame 

That  is  not  hers  to  wear. 

The  sons  of  saintly  women  come 

To  kiss  the  Cross  of  Shame; 
Before  them,  in  another  time. 

Their  worthy  fathers  came.  .  .  . 

And  no  man  tells  his  son  the  truth. 

Lest  he  should  speak  of  sin; 
And  every  man  cries,  "Woe,  alas!" 

And  every  man  goes  in. 


{From  "A  Bed  of  Roses") 

By  W.  L.  George 

(Contemporary  English  novelist.  The  Ufa-story  of  a  woman 
wage-earner  who  is  driven  by  the  pressure  of  want  to  a  career  of 
shame.  In  the  following  scene  she  argues  with  a  suffrage-worker, 
who  has  called  upon  her,  in  ignorance  of  her  true  character) 

THE    woman's    eyes    were    rapt,    her    hands    tightly 
clenched,  her  lips  parted,  her  cheeks  a  little  flushed. 
But  Victoria's  face  had  hardened  suddenly. 

"Miss  Welkin,"  she  said  quietly,  "has  anything  struck 
you  about  this  house,  about  me?" 


M  ammon  639 

The  suffragist  looked  at  her  uneasily. 

"You  ought  to  know  whom  you  are  talking  to,"  Vic- 
toria went  on,  "I  am  a.  .  .  .  I  am  a  what  you  would 
probably  call  .  .  .  well,  not  respectable." 

A  dull  red  flush  spread  over  Miss  Welkin's  face,  from 
the  hne  of  her  tightly  pulled  hair  to  her  stiff  white  collar; 
even  her  ears  went  red.     She  looked  away  into  a  comer. 

"You  see,"  said  Victoria,  "it's  a  shock,  isn't  it?  I 
ought  not  to  have  let  you  in.    It  wasn't  quite  fair,  was  it?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,  Mrs.  Ferris,"  burst  out  the  suffragist, 
"I'm  not  thinking  of  myself.  .  .  .  Our  cause  is  not  the 
cause  of  rich  women  or  poor  women,  of  good  women  or 
bad;  it's  the  cause  of  woman.  Thus,  it  doesn't  matter 
who  she  is,  so  long  as  there  is  a  woman  who  stands  aloof 
from  us  there  is  still  work  to  do.  I  know  that  yours  is  not 
a  happy  life;   and  we  are  bringing  the  hght." 

"The  light!"  echoed  Victoria  bitterly.  "You  have  no 
idea,  I  see,  of  how  many  people  there  are  who  are  bring- 
ing the  light  to  women  like  me.  There  are  various 
religious  organizations  who  wish  to  rescue  us  and  house 
us  comfortably  under  the  patronage  of  the  police,  to  keep 
us  nicely  and  feed  us  on  what  is  suitable  for  the  fallen; 
they  expect  us  to  sew  ten  hours  a  day  for  these  privileges, 
but  that  is  by  the  way.  There  are  also  many  kindly 
souls  who  offer  little  jobs  as  charwomen  to  those  of  us 
who  are  too  worn  out  to  pursue  our  calling;  we  are 
offered  emigration  as  servants  in  exchange  for  the  power 
of  commanding  a.  household;  we  are  offered  poverty  for 
luxury,  service  for  domination,  slavery  to  women  instead 
of  slavery  to  men.     How  tempting  it  is!"  .  .  . 

The  suffragist  said  nothing  for  a  second.  She  felt 
shaken  by  Victoria's  bitterness.  .  .  .  "The  vote  does 
not  mean  everything,"  she  said  reluctantly.      "It  will 


640  The    Cry   for    Justice 

merely  ensure  that  we  rise  like  the  men  when  we  are 
fit." 

"Well,  Miss  Welkin,  I  won't  press  that.  But  now, 
tell  me,  if  women  got  the  vote  to-morrow,  what  would 
it  do  for  my  class?" 

"It  would  be  raised.  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,  we  can't  wait  to  be  raised.  We've  got  to 
live,  and  if  you  'raise'  us  we  lose  our  means  of  livelihood. 
How  are  you  going  to  get  to  the  root  cause  and  lift  us, 
not  the  next  generation,  at  once  out  of  the  lower  depths?" 

The  suffragist's  face  contracted. 

"Everything  takes  time,"  she  faltered.  "Just  as  I 
couldn't  promise  a  charwoman  that  her  hours  would  go 
down  and  her  wages  go  up  the  next  day,  I  can't  say 
that  ...  of  course  your  case  is  more  difficult  than  any 
other,  because  .  .  .  because.  .  .  ." 

"Because,"  said  Victoria  coldly,  "I  represent  a  social 
necessity.  So  long  as  yoiu'  economic  system  is  such  that 
there  is  not  work  for  the  asking  for  every  human  being — 
work,  mark  you,  fitted  to  strength  and  ability — so  long 
on  the  other  hand  as  there  is  such  uncertainty  as  pre- 
vents men  from  marrying,  so  long  as  there  is  a  leisure 
class  who  draw  luxury  from  the  labor  of  other  men; 
so  long  will  my  class  endure  as  it  endured  in  Athens,  in 
Rome,  in  Alexandria,  as  it  does  now  from  St.  John's 
Wood  to  Pekin." 


M  ammon  541 

%^z  idling  ot  Eofae 

{From  "Lovers  Coming  of  Age") 

By  Edward  Carpenter 

(See  page  186) 

I  ^HE  commercial  prostitution  of  love  is  the  last  outcome 
-'-  of  our  whole  social  system,  and  its  most  clear  con- 
demnation. It  flaunts  in  our  streets,  it  hides  itself  in  the 
garment  of  respectability  under  the  name  of  matrimony, 
it  eats  in  actual  physical  disease  and  death  right  through 
our  midst;  it  is  fed  by  the  oppression  and  the  ignorance 
of  women,  by  their  poverty  and  denied  means  of  liveli- 
hood, and  by  the  hypocritical  puritanism  which  forbids 
them  by  millions  not  only  to  gratify  but  even  to  speak 
of  their  natural  desires;  and  it  is  encouraged  by  the 
callousness  of  an  age  which  has  accustomed  men  to  buy 
and  sell  for  money  every  most  precious  thing — even  the 
hfe-long  labor  of  their  brothers,  therefore  why  not  also 
the  very  bodies  of  their  sisters? 


%lz  ffiutcfict'js  &tall 

{From  "Les  Villes  Tentaculaires:"  The  Octopus  Cities) 
By  Emile  Veehaeren 

(Belgian  poet,  born  1855.  When  Maurice  Maeterlinck  was 
suggested  as  a  member  of  the  French  Academy,  he  recommended 
that  the  honor  should  be  conferred  upon  Verhaeren  instead.  Begin- 
ning his  career  as  a  decadent  and  victim  of  disease,  Verhaeren 
evolved  into  a  rhapsodist  of  modern  civilization.  No  poet  has  ever 
approached  him  in  the  portrayal  and  interpretation  of  factories, 
forges,  railroads,  and  all  the  phenomena  of  industrialism.  Of  late 
he  has  become  an  ardent  Socialist.     The  poem  here  quoted  is  from 


5Jf.2  The    Cry   for    Justice 

a  book  portraying  the  sins  and  agonies  of  great  cities.  Only  portions 
of  the  poem  could  be  printed  in  a  work  intended  for  general  circula- 
tion in  Enghsh;  but  even  of  these  passages  the  editor  will  venture 
the  assertion  that  never  before  has  the  horror  of  prostitution  been  so 
packed  into  human  speech) 

T TARD  by  the  docks,  soon  as  the  shadows  fold 

-'•    -I-     The  dizzy  mansion-fronts  that  soar  aloft, 
When  eyes  of  lamps  are  bm-ning  soft, 
The  shy,  dark  quarter  lights  again  its  old 
Allurement  of  red  vice  and  gold. 

Women,  blocks  of  heaped,  blown  meat. 

Stand  on  low  thresholds  down  the  narrow  street. 

Calling  to  every  man  that  passes; 

Behind  them,  at  the  end  of  corridors. 

Shine  fires,  a  curtain  stirs 

And  gives  a  glimpse  of  masses 

Of  mad  and  naked  flesh  in  looking-glasses. 

Hard  by  the  docks 

The  street  upon  the  left  is  ended  by 

A  tangle  of  high  masts  and  shrouds  that  blocks 

A  sheet  of  sky; 

Upon  the  right  a  net  of  grovelling  alleys 

Falls  from  the  town— and  here  the  black  crowd  rallies 

And  reels  to  rotten  revelry. 

It  is  the  flabby,  fulsome  butcher's  stall  of  luxury. 
Time  out  of  mind  erected  on  the  frontiers 
Of  the  city  and  the  sea. 

Far-saiUng  melancholy  mariners 

Who,  wet  with  spray,  thru  grey  mists  peer. 

Cabin-boys  cradled  among  the  rigging,  and  they  who  steer 


M  ammon  543 

Hallucinated  by  the  blue  eyes  of  the  vast  sea-spaces, 

All  dream  of  it,  evoke  it  when  the  evening  falls; 

Their  raw  desire  to  madness  galls; 

The  wind's  soft  kisses  hover  on  their  faces; 

The  wave  awakens  rolling  images  of  soft  embraces; 

And  their  two  arms  implore 

Stretched  in  a  frantic  cry  towards  the  shore. 

And  they  of  offices  and  shops,  the  city  tribes. 
Merchants  precise,  keen  reckoners,  haggard  scribes, 
Who  sell  their  brains  for  hire,  and  tame  their  brows, 
When  the  keys  of  desks  are  hanging  on  the  wall. 
Feel  the  same  galling  rut  at  even-fall. 
And  run  like  hunted  dogs  to  the  carouse. 
Out  of  the  depths  of  dusk  come  their  dark  flocks. 
And  in  their  hearts  debauch  so  rudely  shocks 
Their  ingrained  greed  and  old  accustomed  care. 
That  they  are  racked  and  ruined  by  despair. 

It  is  the  flabby,  fulsome  butcher's  stall  of  luxury, 
Time  out  of  mind  erected  on  the  frontiers 
Of  the  city  and  the  sea. 

Come  from  what  far  sea-isles  or  pestilent  parts? 

Come  from  what  feverish  or  methodic  marts? 

Their  eyes  are  filled  with  bitter,  cunning  hate. 

They  fight  their  instincts  that  they  cannot  sate; 

Around  red  females  who  befool  them,  they 

Herd  frenzied  till  the  dawn  of  sober  day. 

The  panelling  is  fiery  with  lewd  art; 

Out  of  the  wall  nitescent  knick-knacks  dart; 

Fat  Bacchuses  and  leaping  satyrs  in 

Wan  mirrors  freeze  an  unremittiag  grin.  .  .  . 


544  The    Cry   for    Justice 

And  women  with  spent  loins  and  sleeping  croups 

Are  piled  on  sofas  and  arm-chairs  in  groups, 

With  sodden  flesh  grown  vague,  and  black  and  blue 

With  the  first  trampling  of  the  evening's  crew. 

One  of  them  slides  a  gold  coin  in  her  stocking; 

Another  ya'mis,  and  some  their  knees  are  rocking; 

Others  by  bacchanalia  worn  out. 

Feeling  old  age,  and,  sniffing  them.  Death's  snout, 

Stare  with  wide-open  eyes,  torches  extinct. 

And  smooth  their  legs  with  hands  together  linked.  .  .  , 

It  is  the  flabby,  fulsome  butcher's  stall  of  luxiu-y, 

Wherein  Crime  plants  his  knives  that  bleed. 

Where  lightning  madness  stains 

Foreheads  with  rotting  pains. 

Time  out  of  mind  erected  on  frontiers  that  feed 

The  city  and  the  sea. 


By  Maxim  Gorky 

(Perhaps  the  most  famous  novel  of  the  Russian  writer,  the  life- 
story  of  the  son  of  a  prosperous  merchant,  a  youth  who  wrecks  him- 
seH  in  a  vain  search  for  some  outlet  for  his  energies,  and  at  the  end 
commits  suicide) 

' '  "\  JL /"HERE  is  the  merchant  to  spend  his  energy? 
*  *  He  cannot  spend  much  of  it  on  the  Exchange, 
so  he  squanders  the  excess  of  his  muscular  capital  in 
drinking-bouts  in  kabaky;  for  he  has  no  conception  of 
other  applications  of  his  strength,  which  are  more  pro- 
ductive, more  valuable  to  life.  He  is  still  a  beast,  and 
fife  has  already  become  to  him  a  cage,  and  it  is  too  nar- 


Mammon  545 

row  for  him  with  his  splendid  health  and  predilection  for 
Ucentiousness.  Hampered  by  culture,  he  at  once  starts 
to  lead  a  dissolute  life.  The  debauch  of  a  merchant  is 
always  the  revolt  of  a  captive  beast.  Of  course  this  is 
bad.  But,  ah!  it  will  be  worse  yet,  when  this  beast 
shall  have  gathered  some  sense  and  shall  have  disciplined 
it.  Believe  me,  even  then  he  will  not  cease  to  create 
scandals,  but  they  will  be  historical  events.  For  they 
will  emanate  from  the  merchant's  thirst  for  power;  their 
aim  will  be  the  omnipotence  of  one  class,  and  the  mer- 
chant will  not  be  particular  about  the  means  toward  the 
attainment  of  this  aim. 

"Where  am  I  to  make  use  of  my  strength,  since  there 
is  no  demand  for  it?  I  ought  to  fight  with  robbers,  or 
tmn  a  robber  myself.  In  general  I  ought  to  do  some- 
thing big.  And  that  would  be  done,  not  with  the  head, 
but  with  the  arms  and  breast.  While  here  we  have  to 
go  to  the  Exchange  and  try  to  aim  well  to  make  a  rouble. 
What  do  we  need  it  for?  And  what  is  it,  anyway?  Has 
life  been  arranged  in  this  form  forever?  What  sort  of 
life  is  it,  if  everyone  finds  it  too  narrow  for  him?  Life 
ought  to  be  according  to  the  taste  of  man.  If  it  is  nar- 
row for  me,  I  must  move  it  asimder  that  I  may  have 
more  room.  I  must  break  it  and  reconstruct  it.  But 
how?  That's  where  the  trouble  UesI  What  ought  to 
be  done  that  life  may  be  freer?  That  I  don't  under- 
stand, and  that's  all  there  is  to  it!" 


30 


5^6  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Richard  Dehmel   * 
(Contemporary  German  poet,  born  1863) 

I  "HIS  was  the  last  time.     I  was  lounging  in 
-^      The  night-caf^  that  hghts  the  suburb  gloom, 
Tired  with  the  reek  of  sultry  sofa  plush, 
And  with  my  glowing  toddy,  and  the  steam 
Of  women  sweating  in  their  gowns:  tired,  lustful. 

Clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  were  wavering  through 
The  laughter  and  the  haggling  cries  and  shrieks 
Of  painted  women  and  the  men  they  drew. 
The  rattling  at  the  sideboard  of  the  spoons 
Cheered  on  the  hubbub  of  the  mart  of  love 
Uninterrupted  like  a  tambouritie.  .  .  . 

I  was  about  to  choose,  when,  where  1  sate, 

The  crimson  curtain  of  the  door  was  split, 

And  a  fresh  couple  entered.     A  cold  draught 

Cut  through  the  heated  room,  and  some  one  swore; 

But  through  the  crowd  the  pair  stepped  noiselessly. 

Over  against  me  at  the  transverse  end 

Of  the  corridor,  whence  they  could  sweep  the  room, 

They  took  their  seats.     The  chandelier  of  bronze 

Himg  o'er  them  like  an  awning  heavy,  old. 

And  no  one  seemed  to  know  the  couple,  but 

At  my  right  hand  I  heard  a  hoarse  voice  pipe: 

"I  must  have  come  across  that  pair  before." 

He  sat  quite  still.     The  loud  gray  of  the  air 
Almost  recoiled  before  his  callous  brow. 
Which  wan  as  wax  rose  into  his  sparse  hair. 


M  ammon  547 

His  great  pale  eye-lids  hung  down  deep  and  shut, 

On  both  sides  lay  around  his  sunken  nose 

Their  shadows,  and  through  his  thin  beard  shone  the  skin. 

And  only  when  the  woman  at  his  side. 

Less  tall  than  he,  and  of  a  lissom  shape, 

Hissed,  giggling,  in  his  ear  some  obscene  word. 

Half  rose  of  one  black  eye  the  heavy  lid. 

And  slowly  round  he  turned  his  long,  thin  neck, 

As  when  a  vulture  limges  at  a  corpse. 

And  silent  and  more  silent  grew  the  room; 

All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  silent  guest, 

And  on  the  woman  squatted,  strange  to  see. 

"She  is  quite  yoimg" — a  whispering  round  me  went; 

And  with  a  child's  greed  she  was  drinking  milk. 

Yet  almost  old  she  seemed  to  me,  whenever 

Her  tongue  shot  through  a  gap  in  her  black  teeth. 

Her  pointed  tongue  out  of  her  hissing  mouth. 

While  her  gray,  eager  glance  took  in  the  room; 

The  gaslight  in  it  shone  like  poisonous  green. 

And  now  she  rose.     He  had  not  touched  his  glass; 

A  great  coin  lit  the  table.     She  went  out; 

He  automatically  followed  her. 

The  crimson  curtain  round  the  door  fell  to. 

Once  more  the  cold  draught  shivered  through  the  heat, 

But  no  one  cursed.     Through  me  a  shiver  ran. 

I  did  not  choose  a  partner — suddenly 
I  knew  them:  it  was  Syphilis  and  Death. 


BOOK  XI 

JVar 


Pictures  of  a  terrible  evil,   and  denunciations  of  it,  which  will 
be  found  especially  timely  at  the  present  hour. 


3  ferns  t^t  15attU 

(From  "  The  Cry  of  Youth")  ^ 
By  Harry  Kemp 
(See  pages  37,  351) 

T    SING  the  song  of  the  great  clean  guns  that  belch 

■*■         forth  death  at  will. 

Ah,  but  the  wailing  mothers,  the  lifeless  forms  and  still! 

I  sing  the  songs  of  the  billowiag  flags,  the  bugles  that  cry 

before. 
Ah,  but  the  skeletons  flapping  rags,  the  lips  that  speak  no 

more! 


I  sing  the  clash  of  bayonets  and  sabres  that  flash  and 

cleave. 
And  wilt  thou  sing  the  maimed  ones,  too,  that  go  with 

pinned-up  sleeve? 

I  sing  acclaimed  generals  that  bring  the  victory  home. 
Ah,  but  the  broken  bodies  that  drip  like  honey-comb! 

I  sing  of  hearts  triumphant,  long  ranks  of  marching  men. 
And  wilt  thou  sing  the  shadowy  hosts  that  never  march 
again? 


(551) 


552  The    Cry   for    Justice 

{From  '^Beyond  the  Breakers") 

By  George  Sterling 

(See  page  504) 

'  I  ^HE  night  was  on  the  world,  and  in  my  sleep 
■*■      I  heard  a  voice  that  cried  across  the  dark: 
"Give  steel!"     And  gazing  I  beheld  a  red, 
Infernal  stithy.     There  were  Titans  five 
Assembled,  thewed  and  naked  and  malign 
Against  the  glare.     One  to  the  furnace  throat. 
Whence  issued  screams,  fed  shapes  of  human  use — 
The  hammer,  axe  and  plow.     Those  molten  soon; 
Another  haled  the  dazzling  ingot  forth 
With  tongs,  and  gave  it  to  the  anvil.     Two, 
With  massy  sledges  throbbing  at  the  task. 
Harried  the  gloom  with  unenduring  stars 
And  poured  a  clangorous  music  on  the  dark. 
With  loud,  astounding  shock  and  counter-shock 
Incessant.     And  the  fifth  colossus  stood 
The  captain  of  that  labor.     From  his  form 
Spread  wings  more  black  than  Hell's  high-altar — ribbed 
As  are  the  vampire-bat's.     The  night  grew  old. 
And  I  was  then  aware  they  shaped  a  sword.  .  .  . 

In  that  domain  and  interval  of  dream 
'Twas  dawn  upon  the  headlands  of  the  world. 
And  I,  appalled,  beheld  how  men  had  reared 
A  mountain,  dark  below  the  morning  star — 
A  peak  made  up  of  houses  and  of  herds. 
Of  cradles,  yokes  and  all  the  handiwork 


War  553 

Of  man.     Upon  its  crest  were  gems  and  gold, 

Rare  fabrics,  and  the  woof  of  hmnble  looms. 

Harvests  and  groves  and  battlements  were  made 

Part  of  its  ramparts,  and  the  whole  was  drenched 

With  oil  and  wine  and  honey.     Then  thereon 

Men  boimd  their  sons,  the  fair,  alert  and  strong. 

Sparing  no  household.     And  when  all  were  bound, 

Brands  were  brought  forth:  the  mount  became  a  pyre. 

Black  from  that  red  unmensity  of  flame, 

A  tower  of  smoke,  upcoiling  to  the  sky. 

Was  shapen  by  the  winds,  and  took  the  form 

Of  him  who  in  the  stithy  gave  command. 

A  shadow  between  day  and  men  he  stood; 

His  eyes  looked  forth  on  nothingness;  his  wings 

Domed  desolations,  and  the  scarlet  sun 

Glowed  through  their  darkness  like  a  seal  that  God 

Might  set  on  Hell  forever.     Then  the  pyre 

Shrank,  and  he  reeled.     Whereat,  to  save  that  shape 

Their  madness  had  evoked  in  death  and  pain, 

Men  rose  and  made  a  second  sacrifice. 


&artor  EfgfartuiS 

By  Thomas  Carltle 
(See  pages  31,  74.  133,  488) 

'\"\ /"HAT,  speaking  in  quite  unofficial  language,  is  the 
'^'  net-purport  and  upshot  of  war?  To  my  own 
knowledge,  for  example,  there  dwell  and  toil,  in  the 
British  village  of  Dumdrudge,  usually  some  five  hundred 
souls.  From  these,  by  certain  "Natural  Enemies"  of 
the  French,  there  are  successfully  selected,  during  the 


654  The    Cry  for   Justice 

French  war,  say  thirty  able-bodied  men:  Dumdrudge, 
at  her  own  expense,  has  suckled  and  nursed  them:  she 
has,  not  without  difficulty  and  sorrow,  fed  them  up  to 
manhood,  and  even  trained  them  to  crafts,  so  that  one 
can  weave,  another  build,  another  hammer,  and  the 
weakest  can  stand  under  thirty  stone  avoirdupois.  Never- 
theless, amid  much  weeping  and  swearing,  they  are 
selected;  all  dressed  in  red,  and  shipped  away,  at  the 
public  charges,  some  two  thousand  miles,  or  say  only 
to  the  south  of  Spain;  and  fed  there  till  wanted.  And 
now  to  that  same  spot,  in  the  south  of  Spain,  are  thirty 
similar  French  artisans,  from  a  French  Dumdrudge,  in 
like  manner  wending;  till  at  length,  after  infinite  effort, 
the  two  parties  come  into  actual  juxtaposition,  and 
Thirty  stands  fronting  Thirty,  each  with-  a  gun  in  his 
hand.  Straightway  the  word  "Fire!"  is  given  and  they 
blow  the  souls  out  of  one  another,  and  in  place  of  sixty 
brisk  useful  craftsmen,  the  world  has  sixty  dead  carcasses, 
which  it  must  bury,  and  anew  shed  tears  for.  Had  these 
men  any  quarrel?  Busy  as  the  Devil  is,  not  the  smallest! 
They  lived  far  enough  apart;  were  the  entirest  strangers; 
nay,  in  so  wide  a  Universe,  there  was  even,  unconsciously, 
by  Commerce,  some  mutual  helpfulness  between  them. 
How  then?  Simpleton!  their  Governors  had  fallen  out; 
and,  instead  of  shooting  one  another,  had  the  cunning 
to  make  these  poor  blockheads  shoot. — ^Alas,  so  is  it  in 
Deutschland,  and  hitherto  in  all  other  lands;  still  as  of 
old,  "what  devilry  soever  Kings  do,  the  Greeks  must 
pay  the  piper!" — In  that  fiction  of  the  English  Smollett, 
it  is  true,  the  final  Cessation  of  War  is  perhaps  prophet- 
ically shadowed  forth;  where  the  two  Natural  Enemies, 
in  person,  take  each  a  Tobacco-pipe,  filled  with  Brim- 
stone;  Ught  the  same,  and  smoke  in  one  another's  faces, 


W  ar  55 S 

till  the  weaker  gives  in:  but  from  such  predicted  Peace- 
Era,  what  blood-filled  trenches,  and  contentious  centuries, 
may  still  divide  us! 


By   KilSER   WiLHELM   OF   GERMANY 
(Speech  delivered  in  1891) 

RECRUITS!  Before  the  altar  and  the  servant  of 
God  you  have  given  me  the  oath  of  allegiance. 
You  are  too  young  to  know  the  full  meaning  of  what 
you  have  said,  but  your  first  care  must  be  to  obey  im- 
plicitly all  orders  and  directions.  You  have  sworn 
fidelity  to  me,  you  are  the  children  of  my  guard,  you  are 
my  soldiers,  you  have  surrendered  yourselves  to  me,  body 
and  soul.  Only  one  enemy  can  exist  for  you — my  enemy. 
With  the  present  SociaUst  machinations,  it  may  happen 
that  I  shall  order  you  to  shoot  your  own  relatives,  your 
brothers,  or  even  your  parents — which  God  forbid — and 
then  you  are  bound  in  duty  impHcitly  to  obey  my  orders. 


•^Sf  Cominff  of  Mat 

By  Leo  Tolstoy 
(See  pages  88,  110,  148,  276,  374,  416) 

THE  bells  will  peal,  long-haired  men  will  dress  in  golden 
sacks  to  pray  for  successful  slaughter.     And  the  old 
story  will  begin  again,  the  awful  customary  acts. 

The  editors  of  the  daily  Press  will  begin  virulently  to 
stir  men  up  to  hatred  and  manslaughter  in  the  name  of 


566  The    Cry   for    Justice 

patriotism,  happy  in  the  receipt  of  an  increased  income. 
Manufacturers,  merchants,  contractors  for  military  stores, 
will  hurry  joyously  about  their  business,  in  the  hope  of 
double  receipts. 

All  sorts  of  Government  officials  will  buzz  about,  fore- 
seeing a  possibihty  of  purloining  something  more  than 
usual.  The  military  authorities  will  hurry  hither  and 
thither,  drawing  double  pay  and  rations,  and  with  the 
expectation  of  receiving  for  the  slaughter  of  other  men 
various  silly  little  ornaments  which  they  so  highly  prize, 
as  ribbons,  crosses,  orders,  and  stars.  Idle  ladies  and 
gentlemen  will  make  a  great  fuss,  entering  their  names  in 
advance  for  the  Red  Cross  Society,  and  ready  to  bind 
up  the  wounds  of  those  whom  their  husbands  and  brothers 
will  mutilate;  and  they  will  imagine  that  in  so  doing 
they  are  performing  a  most  Christian  work. 

And,  smothering  despair  within  their  souls  by  songs, 
licentiousness,  and  wine,  men  will  trail  along,  torn  from 
peaceful  labor,  from  their  wives,  mothers  and  children — 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  simple-minded,  good-natured 
men  with  murderous  weapons  in  their  hands — anywhere 
they  may  be  driven. 

They  will  march,  freeze,  hunger,  suffer  sickness,  and 
die  from  it,  or  finally  come  to  some  place  where  they  will 
be  slain  by  thousands  or  kill  thousands  themselves  with 
no  reason — ^men  whom  they  have  never  seen  before,  and 
who  neither  have  done  nor  could  do  them  any  mischief. 

And  when  the  number  of  sick,  wounded,  and  killed 
becomes  so  great  that  there  are  not  hands  enough  left 
to  pick  them  up,  and  when  the  air  is  so  infected  with  the 
putrefying  scent  of  the  "food  for  powder"  that  even  the 
authorities  find  it  disagreeable,  a  truce  will  be  made, 
the  wounded  will  be  picked  up  anyhow,  the  sick  will  be 


War  557 

brought  in  and  huddled  together  in  heaps,  the  killed  will 
be  covered  with  earth  and  lime,  and  once  more  all  the 
crowd  of  deluded  men  will  be  led  on  and  on  till  those 
who  have  devised  the  project,  weary  of  it,  or  till  those 
who  thought  to  find  it  profitable  receive  their  spoil. 

And  so  once  more  men  will  be  made  savage,  fierce,  and 
brutal,  and  love  will  wane  in  the  world,  and  the  Christian- 
izing of  mankind,  which  has  already  begun,  will  lapse  for 
scores  and  hundreds  of  years.  And  so  once  more  the 
men  who  reaped  profit  from  it  all,  will  assert  with  assur- 
ance that  since  there  has  been  a  war  there  must  needs 
have  been  one,  and  that  other  wars  must  follow,  and 
they  will  again  prepare  future  generations  for  a  con- 
tinuance of  slaughter,  depraving  them  from  their  birth. 


By  William  Cowper 
(EngHsh  poet,  1731-1800) 

OFOR  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness. 
Some  boundless  contigTiity  of  shade. 
Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit. 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war. 
Might  never  reach  me  more.     My  ear  is  pained. 
My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart. 
It  does  not  feel  for  man;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 


558  The    Cry   for    Justice 

He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  colored  like  his  own;   and  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  la^\'ful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys; 
And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored, 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot. 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 


tlSt  ©igloto  Papwef 

By  James  Russell  Lowell 

(These  poems,   first  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in   1846, 

voiced  the  bitter  opposition  of  New  England  to  the  Mexican 

war  as  a  slave-holders'  enterprise) 

THRASH  away,  you'll  hev  to  rattle 
On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yoimi, — 
'Tain't  a  knowin'  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  mouldy  com; 
Put  in  stiff,  you  fif er  feller, 

Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be, — 
Guess  you'll  toot  till  you  are  yeller 
'Fore  you  git  ahold  o'  me !  .  .  . 


War  559 

Ez  fer  war,  I  call  it  murder, — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 

Than  my  Testyment  fer  that; 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly, 

It's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad, 
An'  you've  got  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God. 

'Tain't  your  eppyletts  an'  feathers 

Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right; 
'Tain't  afollerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight; 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it, 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'mint  ain't  to  answer  for  it, 

God'll  send  the  bill  to  you. 

Wut's  the  use  o'  meetin'-goin' 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry, 
Ef  it's  right  to  go  amowin' 

Feller-men  like  oats  an'  rye? 
I  dunno  but  wMi  it's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats, — 
But  it's  curus  Christian  dooty 

This  'ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats.  .  .  . 

Tell  ye  jest  the  eend  I've  come  to 

Arter  cipherin'  plaguey  smart, 
An'  it  makes'  a  handy  sum,  tu. 

Any  gump  could  larn  by  heart; 
Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman 

Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame. 
Ev'y  thin'  thet's  done  inhuman 

Injers  all  on  'em  the  same. 


660  The    Cry   for    Justice 

'Tain't  by  turnin'  out  to  hack  folks 

You're  agoin'  to  git  your  right, 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you're  put  upon  by  white; 
Slavery  ain't  o'  nary  color, 

'Tain't  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus, 
All  it  keers  fer  in  a  feller 

'S  jest  to  make  him  fiU  its  pus 


1:0  a  il5(n«=fncj  ClBun  ~-^ 

By  p.  F.  McCahthy 

(This  poem  came  to  the  New  York  World  office  on  a  crumpled 

piece  of  soiled  paper.     The  author's  address  was  given  as 

Fourth  Bench,  City  Hall  Park) 

WHETHER  your  shell  hits  the  target  or  not. 
Your  cost  is  Five  Hundred  Dollars  a  Shot. 
You  thing  of  noise  and  flame  and  power, 
We  feed  you  a  hundred  barrels  of  flour 
Each  time  you  roar.     Your  flame  is  fed 
With  twenty  thousand  loaves  of  bread. 
Silence!    A  million  hungry  men 
Seek  bread  to  fill  their  mouths  again. 


War  661 

Bruppi^m 

(JFrom  "  The  Present  Hour") 

By  Percy  Mackaye 

(American  poet  and  dramatist,  born  1875) 

CROWNED  on  the  twilight  battlefield,  there  bends 
A  crooked  iron  dwarf,  and  delves  for  gold, 
Chuckling:   "One  hundred  thousand  gatlings — sold!" 
And  the  moon  rises,  and  a  moaning  rends 
The  mangled  living,  and  the  dead  distends, 
And  a  child  cowers  on  the  chartless  wold, 
Where,  searching  in  his  safety  vault  of  mold, 
The  kobold  kaiser  cuts  his  dividends. 

We,  who  still  wage  his  battles,  are  his  thralls, 
And  dying  do  him  homage;  yea,  and  give 
Daily  our  living  souls  to  be  enticed 

Into  his  power.     So  long  as  on  war's  walls 
We  build  engines  of  death  that  he  may  live. 

So  long  shall  we  serve  Krupp  instead  of  Christ. 


By  The  Empress  Catherine  II  op  Russia 

(1729-1796) 

I  ^HE  only   way   to   save   our   empires   from  the   en- 
-'■     croachment    of    the    people    is   to    engage   in   war, 
and  thus  substitute  national  passions  for  social  aspira- 
tions. 


36 


662  The    Cry   for    Justice 


I 


By  Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia 
(1712-1786) 

F  my  soldiers  were  to  begin  to  reflect,  not  one  of  them 
would  remain  in  the  ranks. 


SDttv  jFatftcr  mwt  ^tt  in  ^taittn 

(From  "The  Human  Slaughter-House") 
By  Wilhblm  Lamszus  \  .' 

(A  novel  by  a  Hamburg  school-teacher,  published  in  1913.    Although 

banned  by  the  authorities  in  some  places,  over  100,000  copies 

were  sold  in  Germany  in  a  few  weeks) 

WE  rejoined  the  Colors  on  Friday.  On  Monday  we 
are  to  move  out.  Today,  being  Simday,  is  full- 
dress  Church  Parade. 

I  slept  badly  last  night,  and  am  feeling  uneasy  and  limp. 

And  now  we  are  sitting  close-packed  in  church. 

The  organ  is  playing  a  voluntary. 

I  am  leaning  back  and  straining  my  ears  for  the  sounds 
in  the  dim  twilight  of  the  building.  Childhood's  days 
rise  before  my  eyes  again.  I  am  watching  a  little  solemn- 
faced  boy  sitting  crouched  in  a  corner  and  listening  to 
the  divine  service.  The  priest  is  standing  in  front  of  the 
ftltar,  and  is  intoning  the  Exhortation  devoutly.  The 
choir  in  the  gallery  is  chanting  the  responses.  The 
organ  thunders  out  and  floods  through  the  building  majes- 
tically. I  am  rapt  in  an  ecstasy  of  sweet  terror,  for  the 
Lord  God  is  coming  down  upon  us.  He  is  standing  before 
me  and  touching  my  body,  so  that  I  have  to  close  my  eyes 
in  a  terror  of  shuddering  ecstasy.  .  .  . 


War  563 

That  is  long,  long  ago,  and  is  all  past  and  done  with, 
as  youth  itself  is  past  and  done  with.  .  .  . 

Strange!  After  all  these  years  of  doubt  and  unbelief, 
at  this  moment  of  lucid  consciousness,  the  atmosphere 
of  devoutness,  long  since  dead,  possesses  me,  and  thrills 
me  so  passionately  that  I  can  hardly  resist  it.  This  is 
the  same  heavy  twihght — these  are  the  same  yearning 
angel  voices — the  same  fearful  sense  of  rapture — 

I  pull  myself  together,  and  sit  bolt  upright  on  the  hard 
wooden  pew. 

In  the  main  and  the  side  aisles  below,  and  in  the  galleries 
above,  nothing  but  soldiers  in  uniform,  and  all,  with  level 
faces,  turned  toward  the  altar,  toward  that  pale  man  in  his 
long  dignified  black  gown,  toward  that  sonorous,  imctuous 
mouth,  from  whose  lips  flows  the  name  of  God. 

Look!  He  is  now  stretching  forth  his  hands.  We 
incline  oiu  heads.  He  is  pronouncing  the  Benediction 
over  us  in  a  voice  that  echoes  from  the  tomb.  He  is 
blessing  us  in  the  name  of  God,  the  Merciful.  He  is 
blessing  our  rifles  that  they  may  not  fail  us;  he  is  blessing 
the  wire-drawn  guns  on  their  patent  recoilless  carriages; 
he  is  blessing  every  precious  cartridge,  lest  a  single  bullet 
be  wasted,  lest  any  pass  idly  through  the  air;  that  each 
one  may  account  for  a  hundred  human  beings,  may  shatter 
a  hundred  himian  beings  simultaneously. 

Father  in  Heaven!  Thou  art  gazing  down  at  us  in 
such  terrible  silence.  Dost  Thou  shudder  at  these  sons 
of  men?  Thou  poor  and  shght  God!  Thou  couldst  only 
rain  Thy  paltry  pitch  and  sulphm-  on  Sodom  and  Gomor- 
rah. But  we,  Thy  children,  whom  Thou  hast  created, 
we  are  going  to  exterminate  them  by  high-pressure  machin- 
ery, and  butcher  whole  cities  in  factories.  Here  we  stand, 
and  while  we  stretch  our  hands  to  Thy  Son  in  prayer, 


664  The    Cry   for    Justice 

and  cry  Hosannah!  we  are  hurling  shells  and  shrapnel 
in  the  face  of  Thy  Image,  and  shooting  the  Son  of  Man 
down  from  His  Cross  like  a  target  at  the  rifle-butts. 

And  now  the  Holy  Communion  is  being  celebrated. 
The  organ  is  playing  mysteriously  from  afar  off,  and  the 
flesh  and  blood  of  the  Redeemer  is  mingling  with  our 
flesh  and  blood. 

There  He  is  hanging  on  the  Cross  above  me,  and  gazing 
down  upon  me. 

How  pale  those  cheeks  look!  And  those  eyes  are  the 
eyes  as  of  one  dead!  Who  was  this  Christ  Who  is  to  aid 
us,  and  Whose  blood  we  drink?  What  was  it  they  once 
taught  us  at  school?  Didst  Thou  not  love  mankind? 
And  didst  Thou  not  die  for  the  whole  human  race?  Stretch 
out  Thine  arms  toward  me.  There  is  something  I  would 
fain  ask  of  Thee.  ...  Ah!  they  have  nailed  Thy  arms 
to  the  Cross,  so  that  Thou  canst  not  stretch  out  a  finger 
toward  us. 

Shuddering,  I  fix  my  eyes  on  the  corpse-like  face  and 
see  that  He  died  long  ago,  that  He  is  nothing  more  than 
wood,  nothing  other  than  a  puppet.  Christ,  it  is  no 
longer  Thee  to  whom  we  pray.  Look  there!  Look  there! 
It  is  he.  The  new  patron  saint  of  a  Christian  State! 
Look  there!  It  is  he,  the  great  Genghis  Khan.  Of  him  we 
know  that  he  swept  through  the  history  of  the  world  with 
fire  and  sword,  and  piled  up  pyramids  of  skulls.  Yes, 
that  is  he.  Let  us  heap  up  mountains  of  human  heads, 
and  pile  up  heaps  of  human  entrails.  Great  Genghis 
Khan!  Thou,  our  patron  saint!  Do  thou  bless  us! 
Pray  to  thy  blood-drenched  father  seated  above  the  skies 
of  Asia,  that  he  may  sweep  with  us  through  the  clouds; 
that  he  may  strike  down  that  accursed  nation  till  it 
writhes  in  its  blood,  till  it  never  can  rise  again.     A  red 


War  665 

mist  swims  before  my  eyes.  Of  a  sudden  I  see  nothing 
but  blood  before  me.  The  heavens  have  opened,  and  the 
red  flood  pours  in  through  the  windows.  Blood  wells 
up  on  the  altar.  The  walls  run  blood  from  the  ceiling  to 
the  floor,  and — God  the  Father  steps  out  of  the  blood. 
Every  scale  of  his  skin  stands  erect,  his  beard  and  hair 
drip  blood.  A  giant  of  blood  stands  before  me.  He 
seats  himself  backward  on  the  altar,  and  is  laughing  from 
thick,  coarse  lips — ^there  sits  the  King  of  Dahomey,  and 
he  butchers  his  slaves.  The  black  executioner  raises  his 
sword  and  whirls  it  above  my  head.  Another  moment 
and  my  head  will  roll  down  on  the  floor — another  moment 
and  the  red  jet  will  spurt  from  my  neck.  .  .  .  Murderers, 
murderers!  None  other  than  murderers!  Lord  God  in 
Heaven! 

Then— 

The  church  door  opens  creaking — 

Light,  air,  the  blue  of  heaven,  burst  in. 

I  draw  a  breath  of  relief.  We  have  risen  to  our  feet, 
and  at  length  pass  out  of  the  twilight  into  the  open  air. 

My  knees  are  still  trembUng  imder  me. 

We  fall  into  hne,  and  in  our  hob-nailed  boots  tramp  in 
step  down  the  street  toward  the  barracks.  When  I  see 
my  mates  marching  beside  me  in  their  matter-of-fact 
and  stohd  way,  I  feel  ashamed,  and  call  myself  a  wretched 
coward.  What  a  weak-nerved,  hysterical  breed,  that  can 
no  longer  look  at  blood  without  fainting!  You  neuras- 
thenic offspring  of  your  sturdy  peasant  forebears,  who 
shouted  for  joy  when  they  went  out  to  fight! 

I  pull  myself  together  and  throw  my  head  back. 

I  never  was  a  coward,  and  eye  for  eye  I  have  always 
looked  my  man  in  the  face,  and  will  so  do  this  time,  too, 
happen  what  may. 


666  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Mark  Twain 

(At  this  place  in  the  Anthology-  occurred  another  passage  from 
the  pen  of  the  late  Samuel  L.  Clemens,  for  the  reproduction  of  which 
permission  was  refused.  See  page  265.  The  passage  is  part  of  the 
"War  Prayer,"  which  was  withheld  from  the  world  until  after  its 
author's  death. 

The  passage  pictures  the  assembling  of  soldiers  in  church,  and 
the  prayer  of  the  chaplain  for  victory.  In  answer  to  the  prayer, 
God  sends  down  a  white-robed  messenger  who  voices  the  unspoken 
meaning  of  the  prayer:  that  the  bodies  of  men  should  be  blown  to 
atoms;  that  women  sho\ild  be  widowed,  and  children  orphaned, 
ripening  harvests  desolated,  and  beautiful  cities  laid  in  ashes.  "For 
our  sakes,  who  adore  Thee,  Lord,  bl^st  their  hopes,  bhght  their 
lives,  protract  their  bitter  pilgrimage,  make  heavy  their  steps,  water 
their  way  with  their  tears,  stain  the  white  snow  with  the  blood  of 
their  wounded  feet!  We  ask  of  one  Who  is  the  Spirit  of  Love,  and 
Who  is  the  ever-faithful  refuge  and  friend  of  all  that  are  sore  beset, 
and  seek  His  aid  with  humble  and  contrite  hearts.  Grant  our 
prayer,  O  Lord,  and  Thine  be  the  praise  and  honor  and  glory,  now 
and  forever.  Amen."  The  messenger  then  bids  the  chaplain 
speak,  and  say  if  he  stiU  wants  what  he  prayed  for.  The  passage 
closes  with  the  remark  that  it  was  generally  agreed  that  the  messen- 
ger was  a  lunatic.  And  Mr.  Clemens'  biographer  adds  the  charmingly 
naive  comment  that  the  reason  the  War  Prayer  was  withheld  was 
that  its  author  "did  not  care  to  invite  the  public  verdict  that  he  was 
a  lunatic,  or  even  a  fanatic  with  a  mission  to  destroy  the  illusions 
and  traditions  and  conclusions  of  mankind") 


War  567 

%^t  IWn&im  of  aaat 

By  Richard  Lb  Gallienne 
(American  poet,  bom  in  England,  1866) 

WAR  I  abhor,  and  yet  how  sweet 
The  sound  along  the  marching  street 
Of  drum  and  fife,  and  I  forget 
Wet  eyes  of  widows,  and  forget 
Broken  old  mothers,  and  the  whole 
Dark  butchery  without  a  soul. 

Without  a  soul,  save  this  bright  drink 

Of  heady  music,  sweet  as  hell; 

And  even  my  peace-abiding  feet 

Go  marching  with  the  marching  street — 

For  yonder,  yonder  goes  the  fife. 

And  what  care  I  for  human  life! 

The  tears  fill  my  astonished  eyes. 
And  my  full  heart  is  like  to  break; 

And  yet  'tis  all  embannered  lies, 

A  dream  those  little  drummers  make. 

O,  it  is  wickedness  to  clothe 

Yon  hideous  grinning  thing  that  stalks, 

Hidden  in  music,  like  a  queen. 
That  in  a  garden  of  glory  walks, 

Till  good  men  love  the  thing  they  loathe. 

Art,  thou  hast  many  infamies, 

But  not  an  infamy  like  this — 
Oh,  snap  the  fife,  and  still  the  drimi, 

And  show  the  monster  as  she  is! 


668  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Ea?  SDoton  gout  atm0 

By  Baroness  Bertha  von  Suttner 

(Austrian  novelist  and  peace  advocate,  1850-1914.  Her  protest 
against  war,  published  in  1889,  made  a  deep  impression  throughout 
Europe.  In  the  following  scene  a  woman  is  taken  to  visit  a  field  of 
battle  with  the  hospital-corps) 

NO  more  thunder,  of  artillery,  no  more  blare  of  trimipets, 
no  more  beat  of  drum;  only  the  low  moans  of  pain 
and  the  rattle  of  death.  In  the  trampled  ground  some 
redly-glimmering  pools,  lakes  of  blood;  all  the  crops 
destroyed,  only  here  and  there  a  piece  of  land  left  un- 
touched, and  still  covered  with  stubble;  the  smiling  vil- 
lages of  yesterday  turned  into  ruins  and  rubbish.  The 
trees  burned  and  hacked  in  the  forests,  the  hedges  torn 
with  grape-shot.  And  on  this  battle-ground  thousands 
and  thousands  of  men  dead  and  dying — dying  without 
aid.  No  blossoms  of  flowers  are  to  be  seen  on  wayside  or 
meadow;  but  sabres,  bayonets,  knapsacks,  cloaks,  over- 
turned ammunition  wagons,  powder  wagons  blown  into 
the  air,  cannon  with  broken  carriages.  Near  the  cannon, 
whose  muzzles  are  black  with  smoke,  the  ground  is  blood- 
iest. There  the  greatest  number  and  the  most  mangled 
of  dead  and  half-dead  men  are  lying,  Uterally  torn  to 
pieces  with  shot;  and  the  dead  horses,  and  the  half -dead 
which  raise  themselves  on  their  feet — such  feet  as  they 
have  left — to  sink  again;  then  raise  themselves  up  once 
more  and  fall  down  again,  till  they  only  raise  their  head 
to  shriek  out  their  pain-laden  death-cry.  There  is  a 
hollow  way  quite  filled  with  corpses  trodden  into  the  mire. 
The  poor  creatures  had  taken  refuge  there  no  doubt  to 
get  cover,  but  a  battery  has  driven  over  them,  and  they 


War  569 

have  been  crushed  by  the  horses'  hoofs  and  the  wheels. 
Many  of  them  are  still  alive — a.  pulpy,  bleeding  mass,  but 
"still  alive. 

And  yet  there  is  still  something  more  hellish  even  than 
all  this,  and  that  is  the  appearance  of  the  most  vile  scum 
of  humanity,  as  it  shows  itself  in  war — the  appearance 
and  activity  of  "the  hyenas  of  the  battlefield."  "Then 
slink  on  the  monsters  who  grope  after  the  spoils  of  the 
dead,  and  bend  over  the  corpses  and  over  the  living, 
mercilessly  tearing  off  their  clothes  from  their  bodies. 
The  boots  are  dragged  off  the  bleeding  limbs,  the  rings 
off  the  wounded  hands,  or  to  get  the  ring  the  finger  is 
simply  chopped  off,  and  if  a  man  tries  to  defend  himself 
from  such  a  sacrifice,  he  is  murdered  by  these  hyenas; 
or,  in  order  to  make  him  unrecognizable,  they  dig  his  eyes 
out." 

I  shrieked  out  loud  at  the  doctor's  last  words.  I  again 
saw  the  whole  scene  before  me,  and  the  eyes  into  which 
the  hyena  was  plimging  his  knife  were  Frederick's  soft, 
blue,  beloved  eyes. 

"Pray,  forgive  me,  dear  lady,  but  it  was  by  your  own 
wish " 

"Oh,  yes;  I  desire  to  hear  it  all.  What  you  are  now 
describing  was  the  night  that  follows  the  battle;  and 
these  scenes  are  enacted  by  the  starlight?" 

"And  by  torchlight.  The  patrols  which  the  conquerors 
send  out  to  survey  the  field  of  battle  carry  torches  and 
lanterns,  and  red  lanterns  are  hoisted  on  signal  poles  to 
point  out  the  places,  where  flying  hospitals  are  to  be 
established." 

"And  next  morning,  how  does  the  field  look?" 

"Almost  more  fearful  still.  The  contrast  between  the 
bright  smiling  dayfight  and  the  dreadful  work  of  man  on 


570  The    Cry   for    Justice 

which  it  shines  has  a  doubly-painful  effect.  At  night  the 
entire  picture  of  horror  is  something  ghostly  and  fantastic. 
By  daylight  it  is  simply  hopeless.  Now  you  see  for  the 
first  time  the  mass  of  corpses  lying  around  on  the  lanes, 
between  the  fields,  in  the  ditches,  behind  the  ruins  of  walls. 
Ever3rwhere  dead  bodies — everywhere.  Plundered,  some 
of  them  naked;  and  just  the  same  with  the  wounded. 
Those  who,  in  spite  of  the  nightly  labor  of  the  Sanitary 
Corps,  are  still  always  lying  around  in  numbers,  look  pale 
and  collapsed,  green  or  yellow,  with  fixed  and  stupefied 
gaze,  or  writhing  in  agonies  of  pain,  they  beg  any  one 
who  comes  near  to  put  them  to  death.  Swarms  of  carrion 
crows  settle  on  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  with  loud  croaks 
aimounce  the  bill  of  fare  of  the  tempting  banquet.  Hungry 
dogs,  from  the  villages  around,  come  running  by  and  lick 
the  blood  from  wounds.  Further  afield  there  are  a  few 
hyenas  to  be  seen,  who  are  still  carrying  on  their  work 
hastily.     And  now  comes  the  great  interment." 

"Who  does  that— the  Sanitary  Corps?" 

"How  could  they  suffice  for  such  a  mass  of  work? 
They  have  fully  enough  to  do  with  the  wounded." 

"Then  troops  are  detailed  for  the  work?" 

"No.  A  crowd  of  men  impressed,  or  even  offering 
themselves  voluntarily — loiterers,  baggage  people,  who 
are  supporting  themselves  by  the  market-stalls,  baggage- 
wagons  and  so  forth,  and  who  now  have  been  hunted 
away  by  the  force  of  the  military  operations,  together 
with  the  inhabitants  of  the  cottages  and  huts — to  dig 
trenches — good  large  ones,  of  course — wide  trenches, 
for  they  are  not  made  deep — there  is  no  time  for  that. 
Into  these  the  dead  bodies  are  thrown,  heads  up  or  heads 
down  just  as  they  come  to  hand.  Or  it  is  done  in  this  way: 
A  heap  is  made  of  the  corpses,  and  a  foot  or  two  of  earth 


^\'AR 

ARXOLD    BOCKLIN 

{German  'painter,  1827-1901.    Painting  in  the  Dresden  Gallery) 


War  571 

is  heaped  up  oyer  them,  and  then  it  has  the  appearance  of 
a  tumulus.  In  a  few  days  rain  comes  on  and  washes  the 
covering  off  the  festering  dead  bodies!  but  what  does  that 
matter?  The  nimble,  jolly  grave-diggers  do  not  look  so 
far  forward.  For  jolly,  merry  workmen  they  are,  that 
one  must  allow.  Songs  are  piped  out  there,  and  all  kinds 
of  dubious  jokes  made — ^nay,  sometimes  a  dance  of  hyenas 
is  danced  round  the  open  trench.  Whether  life  is  still 
stirring  in  several  of  the  bodies  that  are  shovelled  into  it 
or  are  covered  with  the  earth,  they  give  themselves  no 
trouble  to  think.  The  thing  is  inevitable,  for  the  stiff 
cramp  often  comes  on  after  wounds.  Many  who  have 
been  saved  by  accident  have  told  of  the  danger  of  being 
buried  ahve  which  they  have  escaped.  But  how  many 
are  there  of  those  who  are  not  able  to  tell  anything!  If  a 
man  has  once  got  a  foot  or  two  of  earth  over  his  mouth  he 
may  well  hold  his  tongue." 


1£>ttott  feflian 

By  Austin  Dobson 
(English  poet  and  essajdst,  born  1840) 

HERE  in  this  leafy  place 
Quiet  he  hes. 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turned  to  the  skies; 
'Tis  but  another  dead; 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 


572  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Carry  his  body  hence, — 

Kings  must  have  slaves; 
Kings  climb  to  eminence 

Over  men's  graves; 
So  this  man's  eye  is  dim; — 
Throw  the  earth  over  him. 


SDoubt 

{From  "  The  Present  Hour") 
By  Percy  Mackaye 

(One  of  a  group  of  six  sonnets,  entitled  "Carnage,"  written  in 
September,  1914) 

SO  thin,  so  frail  the  opalescent  ice 
Where  yesterday,  in  lordly  pageant,  rose 
The  momunental  nations — the  repose 
Of  continents  at  peace !     Realities 
Solid  as  earth  they  seemed;  yet  in  a  trice 
Their  bastions  crumbled  in  the  surging  floes 
Of  unconceivable,  inhuman  woes, 
Gulfed  in  a  mad,  unmeaning  sacrifice. 

We,  who  survive  that  world-quake,  cower  and  start. 
Searching  our  hidden  souls  with  dark  surmise: 

So  thin,  so  frail — is  reason?    Patient  art — 
Is  it  all  a  mockery,  and  love  all  lies? 
Who  sees  the  lurking  Hun  in  childhood's  eyes? 

Is  hell  so  near  to  every  human  heart? 


War  573 

%flt  mitt  ot  jFIantiEt0 

By  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton 
(See  page  180) 

T    OW  and  brown  barns,  thatched  and  repatched  and 
■' — '      tattered, 

Where  I  had  seven  sons  until  to-day — 
A  Uttle  hill  of  hay  your  spur  has  scattered.  .  .  . 

This  is  not  Paris.     You  have  lost  your  way. 


You,  staring  at  your  sword  to  find  it  brittle, 
Surprised  at  the  surprise  that  was  your  plan; 

Who,  shaking  and  breaking  barriers  not  a  little, 
Find  never  more  the  death-door  of  Sedan. 


Must  I  for  more  than  carnage  call  you  claimant, 
Pay  you  a  penny  for  each  son  you  slay? 

Man,  the  whole  globe  in  gold  were  no  repayment 
For  what  you  have  lost.     And  how  shall  I  repay? 

What  is  the  price  of  that  red  spark  that  caught  me 
From  a  kind  farm  that  never  had  a  name? 

What  is  the  price  of  that  dead  man  they  brought  me? 
For  other  dead  men  do  not  look  the  same. 


How  should  I  pay  for  one  poor  graven  steeple 
Whereon  you  shattered  what  you  shall  not  know? 

How  should  I  pay  you,  miserable  people? 
How  should  I  pay  you  everything  you  owe? 


57It.  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Unhappy,  can  I  give  you  back  your  honor? 

Tho'  I  forgave,  would  any  man  forget? 
While  all  our  great  green  earth  has,  trampled  on  her, 

The  treason  and  terror  of  the  night  we  met. 

Not  any  more  in  vengeance  or  in  pardon. 
One  old  wife  bargains  for  a  bean  that's  hers. 

You  have  no  word  to  break;  no  heart  to  harden. 
Ride  on  and  prosper.     You  have  lost  your  spurs. 


Buttons 

By  Carl  Sandburg 
(Contemporary  American  poet) 

I  HAVE  been  watching  the  war  map  slammed  up  for 
advertising  in  front  of  the  newspaper  office. 
Buttons — red  and  yellow  buttons — blue  and  black  but- 
tons— are,  shoved  back  and  forth  across  the  map. 

A  laughing  young  man,  sunny  with  freckles, 
Climbs  a  ladder,  yells  a  joke  to  somebody  in  the  crowd. 
And  then  fixes  a  yellow  button  one  inch  west 
And  follows  the  yellow  button  with  a  black  button  one 
inch  west. 

(Ten  thousand  men  and  boys  twist  on  their  bodies  in 

a  red  soak  along  a  river  edge, 
Gasping   of   wounds,    calling   for   water,    some    rattling 

death  in  their  throats.) 
Who  by  Christ  would  guess  what  it  cost  to  move  two 

buttons  one  inch  on  the  war  map  here  in  front  of 

the  newspaper  office  where  the  freckle-faced  young 

man  is  laughing  to  us? 


War  575 

By  Alfred  Notes 
(English  poet,  bom  1880) 

A    MURDERED  man,  ten  miles  away, 
■^*-    Will  hardly  shake  your  peace, 
Like  one  red  stain  upon  yoiu:  hand; 
And  a  tortured  child  in  a  distant  land 
Will  never  check  one  smile  to-day, 
Or  bid  one  fiddle  cease. 

The  News 

It  comes  along  a  little  wire, 

Simk  in  a  deep  sea; 
It  thins  in  the  clubs  to  a  little  smoke 
Between  one  joke  and  another  joke. 
For  a  city  in  flames  is  less  than  the  fire 

That  comforts  you  and  me. 

The  Diplomats 

Each  was  honest  after  his  way. 

Lukewarm  in  faith,  and  old; 
And  blood,  to  them,  was  only  a  word. 
And  the  point  of  a  phrase  their  only  sword, 
And  the  cost  of  war,  they  reckoned  it 

In  little  disks  of  gold. 

They  were  cleanly  groomed.    They  were  not  to 
be  bought. 
And  their  cigars  were  good. 
But  they  had  pulled  so  many  strings 


576  The    Cry   for    Justice 

In  the  tinselled  puppet-show  of  kings 
That,  when  they  talked  of  war,  they  thought 
Of  sawdust,  not  of  blood; 

Not  of  the  crimson  tempest 

Where  the  shattered  city  falls : 
They  thought,  behind  their  varnished  doors, 
Of  diplomats,  ambassadors. 
Budgets,  and  loans  and  boundary-lines, 

Coercions  and  re-calls. 

The  Charge 

Slaughter!    Slaughter!    Slaughter! 

The  cold  machines  whirred  on. 
And  strange  things  crawled  amongst  the  wheat 
With  entrails  dragging  round  their  feet, 
And  over  the  foul  red  shambles 

A  fearful  sunlight  shone.  .  .  . 

The  maxims  cracked  like  cattle-whips 

Above  the  struggling  hordes. 
They  rolled  and  plunged  and  writhed  like  snakes 
In  the  trampled  wheat  and  the  blackthorn  brakes, 
And  the  lightnings  leapt  among  them 

Like  clashing  crimson  swords. 

The  rifles  flogged  their  wallowing  herds. 

Flogged  them  down  to  die. 
Down  on  their  slain  the  slayers  lay, 
And  the  shrapnel  thrashed  them  into  the  clay, 
And  tossed  their  limbs  like  tattered  birds 

Thro'  a  red  volcanic  sky. 


War  577 

JSIlat 

{From  "Songs  of  Joy") 
By  William  H.  Davies 

(An  English  poet  whose  "Autobiography  of  a  Super-tramp"  was 
given  to  the  world  with  an  introduction  by  Bernard  Shaw) 

"V/'E  Liberals  and  Conservatives, 
•*■     Have  pity  on  our  human  lives, 
Waste  not  more  blood  on  human  strife; 
Until  we  know  some  way  to  use 
This  human  blood  we  take  or  lose, 
'Tis  sin  to  sacrifice  our  life. 

When  pigs  are  stuck  we  save  their  blood 
And  make  puddings  for  our  food. 

The  sweetest  and  the  cheapest  meat; 
And  many  a  woman,  man  and  boy 
Have  ate  those  puddings  with  great  joy, 

And  oft-times  in  the  open  street. 

Let's  not  have  war  till  we  can  make, 
Of  this  sweet  life  we  lose  or  take. 

Some  kind  of  pudding  of  man's  gore; 
So  that  the  clergy  in  each  parish 
May  save  the  lives  of  those  that  famish 

Because  meat's  dear  and  times  are  poor. 


37 


578  The    Cry   for    Justice 

3n  Prai'0c  of  tje  aaattior 

{From  "Don  Quixote") 

By  Miguel  de  Cervantes 

(Best  known  of  Spanish  novelists,   1547-1616;    himself  a  soldier, 
captured  and  made  a  gaUey-slave  in  Algiers) 

T  AM  not  a  barbarian,  and  I  love  letters,  but  let  us 
■*■  beware  of  according  them  pre-eminence  over  arms,  or 
even  an  equality  with  arms.  The  man  of  letters,  it  is  very 
true,  instructs  and  illuminates  his  fellows,  softens  manners, 
elevates  minds,  and  teaches  us  justice,  a  beautiful  and 
sublime  science.  But  the  warrior  makes  us  observe 
justice.  His  object  is  to  procure  us  the  first  and  sweetest 
of  blessings,  peace,  gentlest  peace,  so  necessary  to  human 
happiness.  This  peace,  adorable  blessing,  gift  divine, 
source  of  happiness,  this  peace  is  the  object  of  war.  The 
warrior  labors  to  procure  it  for  us,  and  the  warrior  there- 
fore performs  the  most  useful  labor  in  the  world. 


&ons  ot  tjr  (K5Epo0ftion 

By  Walt  Whitman 
(See  pages  184,  268) 

AWAY  with  themes  of  war!  away  with  War  itself! 
■  Hence  from  my  shuddering  sight,  to  never  more 
return,  that  show  of  blacken'd,  mutilated  corpses! 
That  hell  unpent,  and  raid  of  blood — fit  for  wild  tigers,  or 

for  lop-tongued  wolves — not  reasoning  men! 
And  in  its  stead  speed  Industry's  campaigns! 
With  thy  undaunted  armies.  Engineering! 
Thy  ptennants.  Labor,  loosen'd  to  the  breeze! 
Thy  bugles  soimding  loud  and  clear! 


War  579 

^omatt  anti  Mat 

{From  "Woman  and  Labor") 

By  Olive  Schreinbr 
(See  pages  240,  246,  504) 

TN  supplying  the  men  for  the  carnage  of  a  battlefield, 
'-  women  have  not  merely  lost  actually  more  blood,  and 
gone  through  a  more  acute  anguish  and  weariness,  in  the 
months  of  bearing  and  in  the  final  agony  of  child-birth, 
than  has  been  experienced  by  the  men  who  cover  it;  but, 
in  the  months  of  rearing  that  follow,  the  women  of  the 
race  go  through  a  long,  patiently  endured  strain  which  no 
knapsacked  soldier  on  his  longest  march  has  ever  more 
than  equalled;  while,  even  in  the  matter  of  death,  in  all 
civilized  societies,  the  probability  that  the  average  woman 
will  die  in  child-birth  is  immeasurably  greater  than  the 
probability  that  the  average  male  will  die  in  battle. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  woman,  whether  she  have  borne 
children,  or  be  merely  potentially  a  child-bearer,  who 
could  look  down  upon  a  battlefield  covered  with  slain, 
but  the  thought  would  rise  in  her,  "So  many  mothers' 
sons!  So  many  young  bodies  brought  into  the  world  to 
lie  there!  So  many  months  of  weariness  and  pain  while 
bones  and  muscles  were  shaped  within!  So  many  hours 
of  anguish  and  struggle  that  breath  might  be!  So  many 
baby  mouths  drawing  life  at  women's  breasts; — all  this, 
that  men  might  he  with  glazed  eyeballs,  and  swollen  faces, 
and  fixed,  blue,  unclosed  mouths,  and  great  limbs  tossed — 
this,  that  an  acre  of  ground  might  be  manured  with  human 
flesh,  that  next  year's  grass  or  poppies  or  karoo  bushes  may 
spring  up  greener  and  redder,  where  they  have  lain,  or  that 
the  sand  of  a  plain  may  have  the  glint  of  white  bones!" 


680  The    Cry   for    Justice 

And  we  cry,  "Without  an  inexorable  cause,  this  must  not 
be!"  No  woman  who  is  a  woman  says  of  a  human  body, 
"It  is  nothing!" 


%lt  arsienal  at  &pt(na:£tel6 

By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 
(Probably  the  most  popular  of  American  poets,  1807-1882) 

■"  I  "HIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 

-*■       Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms; 
But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah!  what  a  sound  will  rise — how  wild  and  dreary — 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus — 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan. 
Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us. 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own.  .  .  . 

Is  it,  0  man,  with  such  discordant  noises. 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these. 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  j  arrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error. 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts. 


War  581 

aaiat  anti  Peace 

By  Benjamin  Franklin 
(American  statesman,  1706-1790) 

T  JOIN  with  you  most  cordially  in  rejoicing  at  the 
■*■  return  of  peace.  I  hope  it  will  be  lasting,  and  that 
mankind  will  at  length,  as  they  call  themselves  reasonable 
creatures,  have  reason  enough  to  settle  their  differences 
without  cutting  throats;  for,  in  my  opinion,  there  never 
was  a  good  war  or  a  bad  peace.  What  vast  additions 
to  the  conveniences  and  comforts  of  life  might  mankind 
have  acquired,  if  the  money  spent  in  wars  had  been 
employed  in  works  of  utility!  What  an  extension  of 
agriculture,  even  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains;  what 
rivers  rendered  navigable,  or  joined  by  canals;  what 
bridges,  aqueducts,  new  roads,  and  other  public  works, 
edifices  and  improvements,  rendering  England  a  com- 
plete paradise,  might  not  have  been  obtained  by  spending 
those  millions  in  doing  good,  which  in  the  last  war  have 
been  spent  in  doing  mischief — in  bringing  misery  into 
thousands  of  families,  and  destroying  the  lives  of  so  many 
working  people,  who  might  have  performed  the  useful 
labors. 


582  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Si  ^tam  ot  tiie  PcoplfS 

(From  "  The  Present  Hour") 

By  Percy  Mackayb 

(See  pages  561,  572) 

GOD  of  us  who  kill  our  kind ! 
Master  of  this  blood-tracked  Mind 
Which  from  wolf  and  Caliban 
Staggers  toward  the  star  of  Man — 
Now,  on  Thy  cathedral  stair, 
God.  we  cry  to  Thee  in  prayer! 

Where  our  stifled  anguish  bleeds 
Strangling  through  Thine  organ  reeds, 
Where  our  voiceless  songs  suspire 
From  the  corpses  in  Thy  choir — ■ 
Through  Thy  charred  and  shattered  nave, 
God,  we  cry  on  Thee  to  save! 

Save  us  from  our  tribal  gods! 

From  the  racial  powers,  whose  rods — 

Wreathed  with  stinging  serpents — stir 

Odin  and  old  Jupiter 

From  their  ancient  hells  of  hate 

To  invade  Thy  dawning  state.  .  .  . 

Lord,  our  God!  to  whom,  from  clay, 

Blood  and  mire.  Thy  peoples  pray — 

Not  from  Thy  cathedral's  stair 

Thou  hearest : — Thou  criest  through  our  prayer 

For  our  prayer  is  but  the  gate : 

We,  who  pray,  ourselves  are  fate. 


War  583 

By  the  Great  Indian,  Chief  Joseph 

T Tear  me,  my  warriors;  my  heart  is  sick  and  sad; 

■'■    -I-     Our  chiefs  are  killed, 

The  old  men  are  all  dead, 

It  is  cold  and  we  have  no  blankets; 

The  little  children  are  freezing  to  death. 

Hear  me,  my  warriors;  my  heart  is  sick  and  sad; 

From  where  the  sun  now  stands  I  will  fight  no  more  forever ! 


a  }^to\tti  for  a  pecp^tual  Pfa« 

By  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau 

(A  document  published  1756  in  which  the  French  philosopher  out- 
lined in  detail  a  plan  for  a  European  federation,  which  seems 
in  1915  to  have  become  the  next  step  in  civilization) 

As  a  more  noble,  useful,  and  delightful  Project  never 
■^*-  engaged  the  human  mind,  than  that  of  establishing 
a  perpetual  peace  among  the  contending  nations  of 
Europe,  never  did  a  writer  lay  a  better  claim  to  the  atten- 
tion of  the  public  that  he  who  points  out  the  means  to 
carry  such  a  design  into  execution.  It  is  indeed  very 
difficult  for  a  nlan  of  probity  and  sensibility,  not  to  be 
fired  with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  on  such  a  subject;  nay, 
I  am  not  clear  that  the  very  illusions  of  a  heart  truly 
humane,  whose  warmth  makes  everything  easily  sur- 
mountable, are  not  in  this  case  more  eligible  than  that 
rigid  and  forbidding  prudence,  which  finds  in  its  own 
indifference  and  want  of  public  spirit,  the  chief  obstacle 
to  everything  that  tends  to  promote  the  public  good. 


584  The    Cry   for    Justice 

I  doubt  not  that  many  of  my  readers  will  be  forearmed 
with  incredulity,  to  withstand  the  pleasing  temptation 
of  being  persuaded;  and  indeed  I  sincerely  lament  their 
dullness  in  mistaking  obstinacy  for  wisdom.  But  I  flatter 
myself,  that  many  an  honest  mind  will  sympathize  with 
me  in  that  delightful  emotion,  with  which  I  take  up  the 
pen  to  treat  of  a  subject  so  greatly  interesting  to  the  world. 
I  am  going  to  take  a  view,  at  least  in  imagination,  of  man- 
kind united  by  love  and  friendship:  I  am  going  to  take  a 
contemplative  prospect  of  an  agreeable  and  peaceful 
society  of  brethren,  living  in  constant  harmony,  directed 
by  the  same  maxims,  and  joint  sharers  of  one  common 
felicity;  while,  realizing  to  myself  so  affecting  a  picture, 
the  representation  of  such  imaginary  happiness  will  give 
me  the  momentary  enjoyment  of  a  pleasure  actually 
present. 

%ti  tfie  people  l?ote  on  ?lMar 

By  Allen  L.  Benson 
(American  Socialist  writer,  born  1871) 

EACH  voter  should  sign  his  or  her  name  to  the  ballot 
that  is  voted.  In  counting,  the  ballots  for  war 
should  be  kept  apart  from  the  ballots  against  war.  In 
the  event  of  more  than  half  of  the  population  voting  for 
war,  those  who  voted  for  war  should  be  sent  to  the  front 
in  the  order  in  which  they  appeared  at  their  respective 
polling  places.  Nobody  who  voted  against  war  should  be 
called  to  serve  until  everybody  who  voted  for  war  had 
been  sent  to  the  front. 


War  685 

)anti=Sl?iUtatig(m 

{From  "  The  Red  Wave  ")     V 
By  Joseph-Henry  Rosny,  the  Elder 

(French  novelist,  member  of  the  Acad^mie  des  Goncourts;  born 
1856.  A  novel  of  revolutionary  Syndicalism.  The  present  scene 
describes  a  debate  organized  between  champions  of  the  revolution- 
ary and  the  conservative  labor  unions,  the  "Reds"  and  the  "Yel- 
lows"; a  grand  Homeric  combat  of  ideas,  in  which  the  audience  is 
wrought  to  a  furious  pitch  of  excitement,  and  does  as  much  talking 
as  the  orators.  In  the  following  extract,  from  about  forty  pages  of 
mingled  eloquence  and  humor,  the  champion  of  the" Reds"  announces 
"the  grave  and  dreadful  problem  of  anti-militarism") 

A  LONG  shudder  agitated  the  hostile  crowds.  All 
-'*■  the  wild  beasts  quivered  in  their  cages.  Rouge- 
mont,  immobile,  scarcely  raised  his  hand;  never  before 
had  his  voice  sounded  more  grave  and  more  pathetic. 

"Ah,  yes!  Question  profound  and  dreadful.  No  one 
has  been  troubled  by  it  more  than  I,  for  I  am  not  among 
those  bold  internationalists  who  deny  their  country. 
I  love  my  land  of  France.  To  make  our  happiness  perfect, 
we  must  have  the  land  of  France.  But  who  would  dare 
to  say  that  we,  the  poor,  are  any  other  thing  upon  that 
land  than  food  for  suffering  and  food  for  barracks?  The 
worst  Prussian,  provided  that  he  owns  a  coin  of  a  hundred 
sous — is  he  not  superior  to  the  unhappy  wretch  who" 
rummages  in  empty  pockets?  All  the  pleasures,  all  the 
beauty,  all  the  luxury,  our  most  beautiful  daughters, 
belong  to  the  rich  cosmopolitan:  he  possesses  the  en- 
chanter's ring.  If  you  have  nothing,  you  will  live  more 
a  stranger  in  your  country  than  the  dog  of  a  swindling 
millionaire.  If  you  have  nothing,  you  will  be  insulted, 
scorned,  hunted,  locked  in  prison  for  vagabondage.    La 


586  The    Cry   for    Justice 

patrie!  La  patrie  of  the  poor!  It  is  a  fable,  a  symbol, 
an  inscription  upon  a  military-list  or  a  school-book — the 
most  bitter  derision!  Your  right,  unhappy  ones — it  is  to 
suffer  and  defend  the  soil,  which  belongs  to  yom-  master,  to 
him  who  possesses.  For  him,  for  him  alone,  our  France 
devotes  each  year  a  billion  francs  for  army  and  navy.  .  .  . 

"It  is  necessary  purely  and  simply  to  suppress  the 
budget  of  the  army  and  navy,"  thundered  Rougemont, 
with  such  force  that  he  broke  the  tumult.  "France 
must  give  all  at  once,  without  hesitation,  the  example 
of  disarmament.  And  that  would  be  a  thing  so  grand 
and  so  beautiful  that  the  entire  imiverse  would  applaud, 
that  all  humanity  would  turn  toward  her.  From  that 
day  alone  we  should  be  at  the  head  of  the  nations,  and 
our  country  would  become  the  country  of  free  men!" 

"Under  the  heel  of  Wilhelm!" 

"A  Poland!" 

"Guts  for  the  cats!" 

"Sold!    Rubbish!    Meat  for  sheenies!" 

"...  living  in  boiling  water  like  lobsters!" 

All  at  once,  the  tiunult  sank.  The  voice  of  the  orator 
forced  itself  upon  the  ear,  high  as  a  bell,  precise  as  a 
clarion.  "Free,  superb,  and  triumphant!  Queen  of  the 
peoples,  goddess  of  the  unfortunate!  If  we  should  dis- 
arm, before  ten  years,  France  would  become  a  land  of 
pilgrimage,  the  Mecca  of  men.  Before  twenty  years,  the 
other  nations  would  have  followed  her  example.  As  for 
making  of  us  a  Poland,  let  them  try  it!  Have  you  then 
forgotten  the  teachings  of  history?  Do  you  not  know 
that  our  grand  armies,  our  innumerable  victories — we 
have  won  as  many  victories  as  all  the  rest  of  Europe 
together — have  only  ended  in  the  crushing  of  Waterloo 
and  the  collapse  of  Sedan?     On  the  contrary,  Italy,  dis- 


War  587 

membered  for  centuries,  Italy,  which  cannot  count  its 
defeats,  is  become  a  free  nation.  That  is  because  it  is 
inhabited  by  a  race,  clean  and  well-defined,  upon  which 
the  foreigner  has  been  unable  to  impress  his  mark. 
France  enslaved,  she,  the  most  intelligent  of  nations,  she 
who  has  had  the  most  influence  upon  minds  and  hearts! 
Come  now,  that  is  not  possible,  that  will  never  happen! 
But  the  people  who  would  howl  indignation  at  the  dis- 
membering of  a  disarmed  France,  would  let  a  war-like 
France  go  down  to  ruin:  she  would  be  only  one  country 
hke  the  others.  So,  I  repeat  it  without  scruple:  it  is 
necessary  that  we  should  give  the  magnificent  example  of 
disarmament.  Only  then  shall  we  be  a  nation  loved 
and  admired  among  nations.  Only  then  will  all  hearts 
turn  toward  us.  Only  then  will  the  idea  that  anyone 
could  touch  France  seem  a  sacrilege  such  as  no  tyrant 
would  risk!" 


%lt  SDaton 

By  Emile  Verhaeren 

(In  this  play  the  Belgian  poet  has  voiced  his  hopes  for  the  regen- 
eration of  human  society.  The  city  of  Oppidomagne  is  beseiged 
by  a  hostile  army,  and  the  revolutionists  in  both  armies  conspire  and 
revolt.  The  gates  of  the  city  are  thrown  open,  and  the  end  of  war 
declared.  A  captain  in  the  hostile  army  is  speaking  over  the  body 
of  H&6nian,  leader  of  the  revolutionists  in  the  city) 

I  WAS  his  disciple,  and  his  unknown  friend.  His  books 
were  my  Bible.  It  is  men  like  this  who  give  birth  to 
men  like  me,  faithful,  long  obscure,  but  whom  fortune 
permits,  in  one  overwhelming  hour,  to  realize  the  supreme 
dream  of  their  master.     If  fatherlands  are  fair,  sweet  to 


588  The    Cry   for    Justice 

the  heart,  dear  to  the  memory,  armed  nations  on  the 
frontiers  are  tragic  and  deadly;  and  the  whole  world  is 
yet  bristling  wth  nations.  It  is  in  their  teeth  that  we 
throw  them  this  example  of  our  concord.  (Cheers.) 
They  wdll  understand  some  day  the  immortal  thing  ac- 
complished here,  in  this  illustrious  Oppidomagne,  whence 
the  loftiest  ideas  of  humanity  have  taken  flight,  one 
after  another,  through  all  the  ages.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  beginning  of  power,  since  brains  have  reckoned 
time,  two  races,  one  renouncing  its  victory,  the  other  its 
humbled  pride,  are  made  one  in  an  embrace.  The  whole 
earth  must  needs  have  quivered,  all  the  blood,  all  the  sap 
of  the  earth  must  have  flowed  to  the  heart  of  things. 
Concord  and  good  will  have  conquered  hate.  (Cheers.) 
Human  strife,  in  its  form  of  bloodshed,  has  been  gainsaid. 
A  new  beacon  shines  on  the  horizon  of  future  storms.  Its 
steady  rays  shall  dazzle  all  eyes,  haunt  all  brains,  magnetize 
all  desires.  Needs  must  we,  after  all  these  trials  and 
sorrows,  come  at  last  into  port,  to  whose  entrance  it  points 
the  way,  and  where  it  gilds  the  tranquil  masts  and  vessels. 
(Enthusiasm  of  all;  the  people  shout  and  embrace. 
The  former  enemies  rise  and  surround  the  speaker.  Those 
of  Oppidomagne  stretch  their  arms  towards  him.) 


War  689 

%^t  Siptinfftime  of  ^tutt 

{From  "Studies  in  Socialism") 

By  Jean  Leon  Jauees 

(Editor  of  I'Humaniti,  and  leader  of  the  French  SociaUst  move- 
ment, 1859-1914;  probably  the  most  eminent  of  Socialist  parKa- 
mentarians,  assassinated  by  a  fanatic  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war 
with  Germany.  The  following  is  the  peroration  of  a  speech 
delivered  at  an  Anglo-French  parliamentary  dinner,  1903) 

'  I  'HE  majesty  of  suffering  labor  is  no  longer  dumb: 
•^  it  speaks  now  with  a  million  tongues,  and  it  asks 
the  nations  not  to  increase  the  ills  which  crush  down  the 
workers  by  an  added  burden  of  mistrust  and  hate,  by  wars 
and  the  expectation  of  wars. 

Gentlemen,  you  may  ask  how  and  when  and  in  what 
form  this  longing  for  international  concord  will  express 
itself  to  some  purpose.  ...  I  can  only  answer  you  by  a 
parable  which  I  gleaned  by  fragments  from  the  legends  of 
Merlin,  the  magician,  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  from 
a  book  that  is  still  unread. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  an  enchanted  forest.  It 
had  been  stripped  of  all  verdure,  it  was  wild  and  forbidding. 
The  trees,  tossed  by  the  bitter  winter  wind  that  never 
ceased,  struck  one  another  with  a  sound  as  of  breaking 
swords.  When  at  last,  after  a  long  series  of  freezing 
nights  and  sunless  days  that  seemed  like  nights,  all  living 
things  trembled  with  the  first  call  of  spring,  the  trees 
became  afraid  of  the  sap  that  began  to  move  within  them. 
And  the  sohtary  and  bitter  spirit  that  had  its  dwelling 
within  the  hard  bark  of  each  of  them  said  very  low,  with 
a  shudder  that  came  up  from  the  deepest  roots:  "Have  a 
care !     If  thou  art  the  first  to  risk  yielding  to  the  wooing 


590  The    Cry   for    Justice 

of  the  new  season,  if  thou  art  the  first  to  turn  thy  lance- 
like buds  into  blossoms  and  leaves,  their  delicate  raiment 
will  be  torn  by  the  rough  blows  of  the  trees  that  have 
been  slower  to  put  forth  leaves  and  flowers." 

And  the  proud  and  melancholy  spirit  that  was  shut  up 
within  the  great  Druidical  oak  spoke  to  its  tree  with 
peculiar  insistence:  "And  wilt  thou,  too,  seek  to  join  the 
universal  love-feast,  thou  whose  noble  branches  have 
been  broken  by  the  storm?" 

Thus,  in  the  enchanted  forest,  mutual  distrust  drove 
back  the  sap,  and  prolonged  the  death-like  winter  even 
after  the  call  of  spring. 

What  happened  at  last?  By  what  mysterious  influence 
was  the  grim  charm  broken?  Did  some  tree  find  the 
courage  to  act  alone,  like  those  April  poplars  that  break 
into  a  shower  of  verdure,  and  give  from  afar  the  signal 
for  a  renewal  of  all  life?  Or  did  a  warmer  and  more 
life-giving  beam  start  the  sap  moving  in  all  the  trees  at 
once?  For  lo!  in  a  single  day  the  whole  forest  burst  forth 
into  a  magnificent  flowering  of  joy  and  peace. 


By  Micah 
(Hebrew  prophet,  B.  C.  700) 

HE  shall  judge  among  many  people,  and  rebuke  strong 
nations  afar  off:  and  they  shall  beat  their  swords 
into  plowshares,  and  their  spears  into  pruninghooks: 
nation  shall  not  hft  up  a  sword  against  nation,  neither 
shall  they  learn  war  any  more.  But  they  shall  sit  every 
man  under  his  vine  and  under  his  fig  tree ;  and  none  shall 
make  them  afraid;  for  the  mouth  of  the  Lord  of  hosts 
hath  spoken  it. 


BOOK  XII 

Country 


The  higher  patriodsm;  the  duty  of  man  to  his  country  as  seen 

from  the  point  of  view  of  Uiose  who  would  make  the  country  the 

parent  and  friend  of  all  who  dwell  in  it. 


SDat  Counttp 

(Read  July  4,  188S) 
By  John  Gbeenleaf  Whittier 

(New  England  Quaker  poet,  1807-1892;  a  prominent  anti- 
slavery  advocate) 

^"\ /"E  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope, 

^^       0  country  of  our  love  and  prayer! 
Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  slope, 
But  up  to  freer  sun  and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace  fires,  and  yet 
By  God's  grace  only  stronger  made, 

In  future  task  before  thee  set 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  old-time  aid. 

Great,  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  of  conquest;  rich  in  gold. 

But  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  children  hold. 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity. 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due — 

So  runs  our  loyal  dream  of  thee; 
God  of  our  fathers !  make  it  true. 

0  land  of  lands !  to  thee  we  give 
Our  love,  our  trust,  our  service  free; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live. 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die  for  thee. 
38  (593) 


594  The    Cry  for    Justice 

^It  U^to  JFt«liom 

By  Woodrow  Wilson 

(President  of  the  United  States,  born  1856.     The  following  is  from 
his  campaign  speeches,  1912) 

A  RE  we  preserving  freedom  in  this  land  of  ours,  the  hope 
■^*-  of  all  the  earth?  Have  we,  inheritors  of  this  conti- 
nent and  of  the  ideals  to  which  the  fathers  consecrated 
it, — have  we  maintained  them,  realizing  them,  as  each 
generation  must,  anew?  Are  we,  in  the  consciousness 
that  the  life  of  man  is  pledged  to  higher  levels  here  than 
elsewhere,  striving  still  to  bear  aloft  the  standards  of 
liberty  and  hope;  or,  disillusioned  and  defeated,  are  we 
feeUng  the  disgrace  of  having  had  a  free  field  in  which 
to  do  new  things  and  of  not  having  done  them? 

The  answer  must  be,  I  am  sm^e,  that  we  have  been  in 
a  fair  way  of  failure, — ^tragic  failure.  And  we  stand  in 
danger  of  utter  failure  yet,  except  we  fulfil  speedily  the 
determination  we  have  reached,  to  deal  with  the  new  and 
subtle  tyrannies  according  to  their  deserts.  Don't  de- 
ceive yourselves  for  a  moment  as  to  the  power  of  the 
great  interests  which  now  dominate  our  development. 
They  are  so  great  that  it  is  almost  an  open  question 
whether  the  government  of  the  United  States  can  domi- 
nate them  or  not.  Go  one  step  further,  make  their  or- 
ganized power  permanent,  and  it  may  be  too  late  to  turn 
back.     The  roads  diverge  at  the  point  where  we  stand. 


Country  595 

Sin  "©lit  (n  "^irime  o£  ^^tsfitation 

By  William  Vaughn  Moody 

(In  these  noble  words  the  poet  voices  his  pain  at  the  Philippine  war, 

and  the  wave  of  "imperialism"  which  then  swept  over 

America) 

"\A /"AS  it  for  this  our  fathers  kept  the  law? 
'^ '     This  crown  shall  crown  their  struggle  and  their 
ruth? 
Are  we  the  eagle  nation  Milton  saw 
Mewing  its  mighty  youth, 
Soon  to  possess  the  mountain  winds  of  truth, 
And  be  a  swift  familiar  of  the  sun 
Where  aye  before  God's  face  his  trumpets  run? 
Or  have  we  but  the  talons  and  the  maw, 
And  for  the  abject  likeness  of  our  heart 
Shall  some  less  lordly  bird  be  set  apart?— 
Some  gross-billed  wader  where  the  swamps  are  fat? 
Some  gorger  in  the  sun?     Some  prowler  with  the  bat? 

Ah,  no! 

We  have  not  fallen  so. 

We  are  oxir  fathers'  sons:  let  those  who  lead  us  know!  .  .  . 

We  charge  you,  ye  who  lead  us. 

Breathe  on  their  chivalry  no  hint  of  stain! 

Turn  not  their  new-world  victories  to  gain! 

One  least  leaf  plucked  for  chaffer  from  the  bays     . 

Of  their  dear  praise. 

One  jot  of  their  pure  conquest  put  to  hire, 

The  implacable  republic  will  require; 

With  clamor,  in  the  glare  and  gaze  of  noon, 

Or  subtly,  coming  as  a  thief  at  night. 


596  The    Cry   for    Justice 

But  surely,  very  surely,  slow  or  soon 

That  insult  deep  we  deeply  will  requite. 

Tempt  not  our  weakness,  our  cupidity! 

For  save  we  let  the  island  men  go  free, 

Those  baffled  and  dislaureled  ghosts 

Will  curse  us  from  the  lamentable  coasts 

Where  walk  the  frustrate  dead, 

The  cup  of  trembling  shall  be  drained  quite, 

Eaten  the  sour  bread  of  astonishment, 

With  ashes  of  the  heart  shall  be  made  white 

Our  hair,  and  wailing  shall  be  in  the  tent; 

Then  on  your  guiltier  head 

Shall  our  intolerable  self-disdain 

Wreak  suddenly  its  anger  and  its  pain; 

For  manifest  in  that  disastrous  light 

We  shall  discern  the  right 

And  do  it,  tardily. — 0  ye  who  lead. 

Take  heed! 

Blindness  we  may  forgive,  but  baseness  we  will  smite> 


•Efif  Pr(«  of  Eifttrtp 

By  Thomas  Jefferson 
(See  pages  228,  332) 

/''^HERISH  the  spirit  of  our  people  and  keep  alive 
^•~^  their  attention.  Do  not  be  too  severe  upon  their 
errors,  but  reclaim  them  by  enlightening  them.  If  once 
they  become  inattentive  to  public  affairs,  you  and  I, 
and  Congress  and  Assembhes,  judges  and  governors, 
shall  all  become  wolves.  It  seems  to  be  the  law  of  our 
general   nature,   in   spite  of  individual   exceptions;    and 


Country  597 

experience  declares  that  man  is  the  only  animal  which 
devours  his  own  kind;  for  I  can  apply  no  milder  term  to 
the  governments  of  Europe,  and  to  the  general  prey  of 
the  rich  on  the  poor. 


%v  i^t  <I5otHir00  of  Efljettp 

{New  York  Harbor) 

By  George  Sterling 

(See  pages  504,  552) 

OH!  is  it  bale-fire  in  thy  brazen  hand — 
The  traitor-light  set  on  betraying  coasts 
To  lure  to  doom  the  mariner?    Art  thou 
Indeed  that  Freedom,  gracious  and  supreme, 
By  France  once  sighted  over  seas  of  blood — 
A  beacon  to  the  ages,  and  their  hope, 
A  star  against  the  midnight  of  the  race, 
A  vision,  an  announcement?     Art  thou  she 
For  whom  our  fathers  fought  at  Lexington 
And  trod  the  ways  of  death  at  Gettysburg? 
Thy  torch  is  lit,  thy  steadfast  hand  upheld, 
Before  our  ocean-portals.     For  a  sign 
Men  set  thee  there  to  welcome — loving  men. 
With  faith  in  man.     Thou  wast  upraised  to  tell. 
To  simple  souls  that  seek  from  over-seas 
Our  rumored  liberty,  that  here  no  chains 
Are  on  the  people,  here  no  kings  can  stand, 
Nor  the  old  tyranny  confound  mankind. 
Sapping  with  craft  the  ramparts  of  the  Law 


698  The    Cry   for    Justice 

For  such,  0  high  presentment  of  their  dream! 
Thy  pathless  sandals  wait  upon  the  stone, 
Thy  tranquil  face  looks  evermore  to  sea : 
Now  turn,  and  know  the  treason  at  thy  back! 
Turn  to  the  anarchs'  turrets,  and  behold 
The  cunning  ones  that  reap  where  others  sow! 

In  those  great  strongholds  lifted  to  the  sun 
They  plot  dominion.     Throned  greeds  conspire, 
Half  allied  in  a  brotherhood  malign, 
Against  the  throneless  many.  .  .  . 

Would  One  might  pour  within  thy  breast  of  bronze 

Spirit  and  life!     Then  should  thy  loyal  hand 

Cast  down  its  torch,  and  thy  deep  voice  should  cry: 

"Turn  back!     Turn  back,  0  liberative  ships! 

Be  warned,  ye  voyagers !     From  tyranny 

To  vaster  tyranny  ye  come !    Ye  come 

From  realms  that  in  my  morning  twilight  wait 

My  radiant  invasion.     But  these  shores 

Have  known  me  and  renoimced  me.     I  am  raised 

In  mockery,  and  here  the  forfeit  day 

Deepens  to  West,  and  my  indignant  Star 

Would  hide  her  shame  with  darkness  and  the  sea — 

.  A  sun  of  doom  forecasting  on  the  Land 

The  shadow  of  the  sceptre  and  the  sword." 


Country  599 

'QTo  tSe  UnfteH  fetaus  femate 

By  Vachel  Lindsay 

(Upon  the  arrival  of  the  news  that  the  United  States  Senate  had 
declared  the  election  of  William  Lorimer  good  and  valid) 

AND  must  the  Senator  from  Illinois 
•    Be  this  squat  thing,  with  blinking,  half-closed  eyes? 
This  brazen  gutter  idol,  reared  to  power 
Upon  a  leering  pyramid  of  lies? 

And  must  the  Senator  from  Illinois 

Be  the  world's  proverb  of  successful  shame, 

Dazzling  all  State  house  flies  that  steal  and  steal. 

Who,  when  the  sad  State  spares  them,  coimt  it  fame? 

If  once  or  twice  within  his  new  won  hall 
His  vote  had  counted  for  the  broken  men; 

If  in  his  early  days  he  wrought  some  good — 
We  might  a  great  soul's  sins  forgive  him  then. 

But  must  the  Senator  from  lUinois 

Be  vindicated  by  fat  kings  of  gold? 
And  must  he  be  belauded  by  the  smirched, 

The  sleek,  imcanny  chiefs  in  lies  grown  old? 

Be  warned,  0  wanton  ones,  who  shielded  him — 
Black  wrath  awaits.     You  all  shall  eat  the  dust. 

You  dare  not  say:  "Tomorrow  will  bring  peace; 
Let  us  make  merry,  and  go  forth  ua  lust." 

What  will  you  trading  frogs  do  on  a  day 
When  Armageddon  thunders  thro'  the  land; 

When  each  sad  patriot  rises,  mad  with  shame, 
His  ballot  or  his  musket  in  his  hand? 


600  The    Cry   for    Justice 

%^t  iSDutg  of  €M\  2D(0oliedwn« 

By  Henry  David  Thoheau 
(See  page  295) 

WHAT  is  the  price-current  of  an  honest  man  and 
patriot  today?  They  hesitate,  and  they  regret, 
and  sometimes  they  petition;  but  they  do  nothing  in 
earnest  and  with  effect.  They  will  wait,  well  disposed, 
for  others  to  remedy  the  evil,  that  they  may  no  longer 
have  it  to  regret.  At  most,  they  give  only  a  cheap  vote 
and  a  feeble  countenance  and  God-speed,  to  the  right, 
as  it  goes  by  them. 


(Written  during  the  Revolutionary  War) 

By  Thomas  Jefferson 

(See  pages  228,  332,  596) 

THE  spirit  of  the  times  may  alter,  will  alter.  Our 
rulers  will  become  corrupt,  our  people  careless.  A 
single  zealot  may  become  persecutor,  and  better  men  be 
his  victims.  It  can  never  be  too  often  repeated  that  the 
time  for  fixing  essential  right,  on  a  legal  basis,  is  while 
our  rulers  are  honest,  ourselves  united.  From  the  conclu- 
sion of  this  war  we  shall  be  going  down  hill.  It  will  not 
then  be  necessary  to  resort  every  moment  to  the  people 
for  support.  They  will  be  forgotten,  therefore,  and  their 
rights  disregarded.  They  will  forget  themselves  in  the 
sole  faculty  of  making  money,  and  will  never  think  of 
uniting  to  effect  a  due  respect  for  their  rights.      The 


C  ountry  601 

shackles,  therefore,  which  shall  not  be  knocked  off  at 
the  conclusion  of  this  war,  will  be  heavier  and  heavier, 
till  our  rights  shall  revive  or  expire  in  a  convulsion. 


an  (Election  Campaisn  fn  IJcto  Porlt 

{From  "  The  House  of  Bondage") 

By  Reginald  Wright  Kauffman 

(See  pages  53,  167) 

"T^OR  many  days  previously,  any  outsider,  reading  the 
■*■  newspapers  or  attending  the  mass-meetings  in  Cooper 
Union  and  Carnegie  Hall,  would  have  supposed  that  a 
prodigious  battle  was  waging  and  that  the  result  would 
be,  until  the  last  shot,  in  doubt.  There  were  terrible  scare- 
heads,  brutal  cartoons,  and  extra  editions.  As  the  real 
problem  was  whether  one  organization  of  needy  men 
should  remain  in  control,  or  whether  another  should 
replace  it,  there  were  few  matters  of  policy  to  be  dis- 
cussed; and  so  the  speechmaking  and  the  printing  re- 
solved themselves  into  personal  investigations,  and  attacks 
upon  character.  Private  detectives  were  hired,  records 
searched,  neighbors  questioned,  old  enemies  sought  out, 
and  family  feuds  revived.  Desks  were  broken  open, 
letters  bought,  anonymous  communications  mailed, 
boyhood  indiscretions  unearthed,  and  women  and  men 
hired  to  wheedle,  to  commit  perjury,  to  entrap.  What- 
ever was  discovered,  forged,  stolen,  manufactured — what- 
ever truth  or  falsehood  could  be  seized  by  whatever 
means — was  blazoned  in  the  papers,  shrieked  by  the 
newsboys,  bawled  from  the  cart-tails  at  the  corners  under 


602  The    Cry   for    Justice 

the  campaign  banners,  in  the  light  of  the  torches  and  before 
the  cheering  crowds.  It  would  be  all  over  in  a  very- 
short  while;  in  a  very  short  while  there  would  pass  one 
another,  with  pleasant  smiles,  in  court,  at  church,  and 
along  Broadway,  the  distinguished  gentlemen  that  were 
now,  before  big  audiences,  calling  one  another  adulterers 
and  thieves;  but  it  is  customary  for  distinguished  gentle- 
men so  to  call  one  another  during  a  manly  campaign  in 
this  successful  democracy  of  ours,  and  it  seems  to  be  an 
engrossing  occupation  while  the  chance  endures. 


'Efie  SDoom  d£  (Emptor 

By  Robert  G.  Ingehsoll 

(American  lawyer  and  lecturer,  1833-1899) 

THE  traveler  standing  amid  the  ruins  of  ancient  cities 
and  empires,  seeing  on  every  side  the  fallen  pillar 
and  the  prostrate  wall,  asks  why  did  these  cities  fall,  why 
did  these  empires  crumble?  And  the  Ghost  of  the  Past, 
the  wisdom  of  ages,  answers:  These  temples,  these 
palaces,  these  cities,  the  ruins  of  which  you  stand  upon, 
were  built  by  tyranny  and  injustice.  The  hands  that 
built  them  were  unpaid.  The  backs  that  bore  the  burdens 
also  bore  the  marks  of  the  lash.  They  were  built  by  slaves 
to  satisfy  the  vanity  and  ambition  of  thieves  and  robbers. 
For  these  reasons  they  are  dust.. 

Their  civilization  was  a  lie.  Their  laws  merely  regu- 
lated robbery  and  established  theft.  They  bought  and 
sold  the  bodies  and  souls  of  men,  and  the  mournful  wind 
of  desolation,  sighing  amid  their  crumbling  ruins,  is  a 
voice  of  prophetic  warning  to  those  who  would  repeat 


Country  603 

the  infamous  experiment,  uttering  the  great  truth,  that 
no  nation  founded  upon  slavery,  either  of  body  or  mind, 
can  stand. 


%^t  fetatur  Df  Efbcrtp 

{New  York  Harbor,  A.D.  2900) 

By  Arthur  Upson 
(American  poet,  1877-1908) 

T lERE  once,  the  records  show,  a  land  whose  pride 

*■    ■'•  Abode  in  Freedom's  watchword !  And  once  here 

The  port  of  traffic  for  a  hemisphere, 

With  great  gold-piling  cities  at  her  side ! 

Tradition  says,  superbly  once  did  bide 

Their  sculptured  goddess  on  an  island  near. 

With  hospitable  smile  and  torch  kept  clear 

For  all  wild  hordes  that  sought  her  o'er  the  tide. 

'Twas  centuries  ago.     But  this  is  true: 

Late  the  fond  tyrant  who  misrules  our  land. 

Bidding  his  serfs  dig  deep  in  marshes  old. 

Trembled,  not  knowing  wherefore,  as  they  drew 

From  out  this  swampy  bed  of  ancient  mould 

A  shattered  torch  held  in  a  mighty  hand. 


By  Francis  Bacon 

(English  philosopher  and  statesman,   father  of    modern  scientific 
thought;  1561-1626) 

T  ET  states  that  aim  at  greatness  take  heed  how  their 
■*— '  nobility  and  gentlemen  do  multiply  too  fast.  For 
that  maketh  the  common  subject  grow  to  be  a  peasant 
and  base  swain,  driven  out  of  heart,  and  in  effect  but  the 
gentleman's  laborer. 


604  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Daniel  Webster 
(New  England  statesman  and  orator,  1782-1852) 

I  ^HE  freest  government  cannot  long  endure  when  the 
■'■    tendency  of  the  law  is  to  create  a  rapid  accumulation 

of  property  in  the  hands  of  a  few,  and  to  render  the 

masses  poor  and  dependent. 


By  Olever  Goldsmith 
(English  poet  and  novelist,  1728-1774) 

OWEET-smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn! 

^  Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  ; 

Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green; 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 

And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain; 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 

But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 

Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies. 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries; 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 

And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall; 

And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand; 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 


C  ountry  605 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made: 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 
A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man; 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more: 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered :  trade's  unfeeling  train 

Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain; 

Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose. 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose; 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride, 

Those  gentle  hoius  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room. 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green — 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more.  .  .  . 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish,  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 


606  The    Cry   for    Justice 

Yet  count  our  gains;  this  wealth  is  but  a  name, 

That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss:  the  man  of  wealth  and  pride 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds. 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds; 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 

Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies; 

While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure  all. 

In  barren  splendor,  feebly  waits  the  fall.  .  .  . 

Where  then,  ah!  where,  shall  poverty  reside, 

To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 

If,  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed, 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 

And  even  the  bare-worn  conamon  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share; 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 

To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind; 

To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasiu-e  know 

Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures'  woe. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 

Fere  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign. 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 


C  ountry  607 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square — 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 

Siu'e  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts?    Ah!  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor,  houseless,  shivering  female  lies; 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn; 

Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled — 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head; 

And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower. 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 

When,  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town. 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown.  .  .  . 

0  luxury!  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 

How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee! 

How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy. 

Diffuse  their  pleasiu-es  only  to  destroy! 

Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 

Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 

A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe; 

Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 

Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 


608  The    Cry    for    Justice 

(KnglanU  in  1819 

By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 
(See  page  272) 

AN  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying  king, — 
■   Princes,  the  dregs  of  their  dull  race,  who  flow 
Through  public  scorn — mud  from  a  muddy  spring, — 

Rulers,  who  neither  see,  nor  feel,  nor  know. 
But  leech-like  to  their  fainting  country  cling, 

Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  without  a  blow — 
A  people  starved  and  stabbed  in  the  imtilled  field, — 

An  army,  which  liberticide  and  prey 
Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who  wield, — 

Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt  and  slay; 
Religion  Christless,  Godless — a  book  sealed; 
A  Senate, — Time's  worst  statute  unrepealed, — ■ 
Are  graves,  from  which  a  glorious  Phantom  may 
Burst,  to  illumine  our  tempestuous  day. 


'2D5E  l^ictoriatt  ^%t 

By  Edward  Carpenter 
(Seepages  186,  541) 

I  FOUND  myself — and  without  knowing  where  I  was — 
in  the  middle  of  that  strange  period  of  human  evolu- 
jtion,  the  Victorian  Age,  which  in  some  respects,  one  now 
'thinks,  marked  the  lowest  ebb  of  modem  civilized  society; 
a  period  in  which  not  only  commercialism  in  public  life, 
but  cant  in  religion,  pure  materialism  in  science,  futility 
in  social  conventions,  the  worship  of  stocks  and  shares, 
the  starving  of  the  human  heart,  the  denial  of  the  human 


Country  609 

body  and  its  needs,  the  huddling  concealment  of  the  body 
in  clothes,  the  "impure  hush"  on  matters  of  sex,  class- 
division,  contempt  of  manual  labor,  and  the  cruel  barring 
of  women  from  every  natural  and  useful  expression  of 
their  lives,  were  carried  to  an  extremity  of  folly  difficult 
for  us  now  to  reaUze. 


Cotonatton  SDa^ 

{From  "  The  People  of  the  Abyss") 

By  Jack  London 

(See  pages  62,  125  139,  519) 

\  71  VAT  Rex  Eduardus!  They  crowned  a  king  this 
^  day,  and  there  have  been  great  rejoicing  and  elab- 
orate tomfoolery,  and  I  am  perplexed  and  saddened. 
I  never  saw  anything  to  compare  with  the  pageant, 
except  Yankee  circuses  and  Alhambra  ballets;  nor  did 
I  ever  see  anything  so  hopeless  and  so  tragic. 

To  have  enjoyed  the  Coronation  procession,  I  should 
have  come  straight  from  America  to  the  Hotel  Cecil, 
and  straight  from  the  Hotel  Cecil  to  a  five-guinea  seat 
among  the  washed.  My  mistake  was  in  coming  from 
the  unwashed  of  the  East  End.  There  were  not  many 
who  came  from  that  quarter.  The  East  End,  as  a  whole, 
remained  in  the  East  End  and  got  drunk.  The  Socialists, 
Democrats,  and  Republicans  went  off  to  the  coimtry  for 
a  breath  of  fresh  air,  quite  unaffected  by  the  fact  that  four 
hundred  millions  of  people  were  taking  to  themselves  a 
crowned  and  anointed  ruler.  Six  thousand  five  hundred 
prelates,  priests,  statesmen,  princes  and  warriors  beheld 
the  crowning,  and  the  rest  of  us  the  pageant  as  it  passed. 

39 


610  The    Cry   for    Justice 

I  saw  it  at  Trafalgar  Square,  "the  most  splendid  site  in 
Europe,"  and  the  very  innermost  heart  of  the  empire. 
There  were  many  thousands  of  us,  all  checked  and  held 
in  order  by  a  superb  display  of  armed  power.  The  line 
of  march  was  double-walled  with  soldiers.  The  base 
of  the  Nelson  Column  was  triple-fringed  ^^dth  bluejackets. 
Eastward,  at  the  entrance  to  the  square,  stood  the  Royal 
Marine  Artillery.  In  the  triangle  of  Pall  Mall  and  Cock- 
spur  Street,  the  statue  of  George  III  was  buttressed  on 
either  side  by  the  Lancers  and  Hussars.  To  the  west 
were  the  red-coats  of  the  Royal  Marines,  and  from  the 
Union  Club  to  the  embouchure  of  Whitehall  swept  the 
glittering,  massive  curve  of  the  First  Life  Guards — 
gigantic  men  mounted  on  gigantic  chargers,  steel-breast- 
plated,  steel-helmeted,  steel-caparisoned,  a  great  war- 
sword  of  steel  ready  to  the  hand  of  the  powers  that  be. 
And  further,  throughout  the  crowd,  were  flung  long  lines 
of  the  Metropolitan  Constabulary,  while  in  the  rear  were 
the  reserves — tall,  well-fed  men,  with  weapons  to  wield 
and  muscles  to  wield  them  in  case  of  need. 

And  as  it  was  thus  at  Trafalgar  Square,  so  was  it  along 
the  whole  line  of  march — force,  overpowering  force; 
myriads  of  men,  splendid  men,  the  pick  of  the  people, 
whose  sole  fimction  in  hfe  is  blindly  to  obey,  and  blindly 
to  kill  and  destroy  and  stamp  out  life.  And  that  they 
should  be  well  fed,  well  clothed,  and  well  armed,  and  have 
ships  to  hml  them  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  the  East 
End  of  London,  and  the  "East  End"  of  all  England,  toils 
and  rots  and  dies. 

There  is  a  Chinese  proverb  that  if  one  man  lives  in 
laziness  another  will  die  of  hunger;  and  Montesquieu 
has  said,  "The  fact  that  many  men  are  occupied  in  mak- 
ing clothes  for  one  individual  is  the  cause  of  there  being 


Country  ■  ,  611 

many  people  without  clothes."  We  cannot  understand 
the  starved  and  runty  toiler  of  the  East  End  (living  with 
his  family  in  a  one-room  den,  and  letting  out  the  floor 
space  for  lodgings  to  other  starved  and  rimty  toilers) 
till  we  look  at  the  strapping  Life  Guardsmen  of  the  West 
End,  and  come  to  know  that  the  one  must  feed  and  clothe 
and  groom  the  other.  .  .  . 

In  these  latter  days,  five  hundred  hereditary  peers  own 
one-fifth  of  England;  and  they,  and  the  officers  and 
servants  under  the  King,  and  those  who  go  to  compose 
the  powers  that  be,  yearly  spend  in  wasteful  luxury 
*1,850,000,000,  or  £370,000,000,  which  is  thirty-two  per 
cent  of  the  total  wealth  produced  by  all  the  toilers  of 
the  country. 

At  the  Abbey,  clad  in  wonderful  golden  raiment,  amid 
fanfare  of  tnmipets  and  throbbing  of  music,  surrounded 
by  a  brilliant  throng  of  masters,  lords,  and  rulers,  the 
King  was  being  invested  with  the  insignia  of  his  sov- 
ereignty. The  spurs  were  placed  to  his  heels  by  the 
Lord  Great  Chamberlain,  and  a  sword  of  state,  in  purple 
scabbard,  was  presented  him  by  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, with  these  words: — 

"Receive  this  kingly  sword  brought  now  from  the  altar 
of  God,  and  delivered  to  you  by  the  hands  of  the  bishops 
and  servants  of  God,  though  unworthy." 

Whereupon,  being  girded,  he  gave  heed  to  the  Arch- 
bishop's exhortation: — 

"With  this  sword  do  justice,  stop  the  growth  of  in- 
iquity, protect  the  Holy  Church  of  God,  help  and  defend 
widows  and  orphans,  restore  the  things  that  are  gone  to 
decay,  maintain  the  things  that  are  restored,  punish  and 
reform  what  is  amiss,  and  confirm  what  is  in  good 
order.  .  .  ." 


612  The.   Cry   for    Justice 

"And  how  did  you  like  the  procession,  mate?"  I  asked 
an  old  man  on  a  bench  in  Green  Park. 

"  'Ow  did  I  like  it?  A  bloomin'  good  chawnce,  sez  I 
to  myself,  for  a  sleep,  wi'  all  the  coppers  aw'y,  so  I 
tiu-ned  into  the  corner  there,  along  wi'  fifty  others.  But 
I  couldn't  sleep,  a-lyin'  there  'ungry  an'  thinkin'  'ow  I'd 
worked  all  the  years  'o  my  life,  an'  now  'ad  no  plyce  to 
rest  my  'ead;  an'  the  music  comin'  to  me,  an'  the  cheers 
an'  cannon,  till  I  got  almost  a  hanarchist  an'  wanted  to 
blow  out  the  brains  o'  the  Lord  Chamberlain." 

Why  the  Lord  Chamberlain  I  could  not  precisely  see, 
nor  could  he,  but  that  was  the  way  he  felt,  he  said  con- 
clusively, and  there  was  no  more  discussion.  .  .  . 

At  three  in  the  morning  I  strolled  up  the  Embankment. 
It  was  a  gala  night  for  the  homeless,  for  the  police  were 
elsewhere;  and  each  bench  was  jammed  with  sleeping 
occupants.  There  were  as  many  women  as  men,  and 
the  great  majority  of  them,  male  and  female,  were  old. 
Occasionally  a  boy  was  to  be  seen.  On  one  bench  I 
noticed  a  family,  a  man  sitting  upright  with  a  sleeping 
babe  in  his  arms,  his  wife  asleep,  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
and  in  her  lap  the  head  of  a  sleeping  youngster.  The 
man's  eyes  were  wide  open.  He  was  staring  out  over 
the  water  and  thinking,  which  is  not  a  good  thing  for  a 
shelterless  man  with  a  family  to  do.  It  would  not  be  a 
pleasant  thing  to  speculate  upon  his  thoughts;  but  this 
I  know,  and  all  London  knows,  that  the  cases  of  out-of- 
works  killing  their  wives  and  babies  is  not  an  uncommon 
happening. 

One  cannot  walk  along  the  Thames  Embankment,  in 
the  small  hours  of  morning,  from  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment, past  Cleopatra's  Needle,  to  Waterloo  Bridge, 
without  being  reminded  of  the.  sufferings,  seven  and 
twenty  centuries  old,  recited  by  the  author  of  "Job": — 


VV  ,- 


2.  ?.  ^.  J.  3-         „      o 

S    s    «  ~  5 


Country  613 

"There  are  that  remove  the  landmarks;  they  violently 
take  away  flocks  and  feed  them. 

"They  drive  away  the  ass  of  the  fatherless,  they  take 
the  widow's  ox  for  a  pledge. 

"They  turn  the  needy  out  of  the  way;  the  poor  of  the 
earth  hide  themselves  together. 

"Behold,  as  wild  asses  in  the  desert  they  go  forth  to 
their  work,  seeking  diligently  for  meat;  the  wilderness 
yieldeth  them  food  for  their  children. 

"They  cut  their  provender  in  the  field,  and  they  glean 
the  vintage  of  the  wicked. 

"They  lie  all  night  naked  without  clothing,  and  have 
no  covering  in  the  cold. 

"They  are  wet  with  the  showers  of  the  mountains,  and 
embrace  the  rock  for  want  of  a  shelter. 

"There  are  that  pluck  the  fatherless  from  the  breast, 
and  take  a  pledge  of  the  poor. 

"So  that  they  go  about  naked  without  clothing,  and 
being  an  hungered  they  carry  the  sheaves." 

Seven  and  twenty  centuries  agone!  And  it  is  all  as 
true  and  apposite  today  in  the  innermost  centre  of  this 
Christian  civilisation  whereof  Edward  VII  is  king. 


%lt  SMtonfffoInfSss  of  Eicfieg 

By  Grant  Allen 
(See  page  210) 

T TAVE  you  ever  reflected  with  what  equipment  of 

••■  -I-  rights  the  average  citizen  is  born  endowed  in  Eng- 
land? With  the  right  of  moving  up  and  down  the  public 
roads  till  he  drops  from  exhaustion.  That  is  all.  Lit- 
erally and  absolutely  all. 


614  The    Cry   for    Justice 

By  Walter  Savage  Landor 
(English  poet  and  essayist,  1775-1864) 

A  WANT  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  in  peasants  or 
^*-  artisans,  when  the  seasons  have  been  favorable, 
is  a  certain  sign  of  defect  in  the  constitution,  or  of  crimi- 
nality in  the  administration. 


tCfie  %tm  JfmptriaHgim 

By  William  Watson 

(English  poet,  conspicuous  for  his  courage  in  opposing  the  Boer  war; 
born  1858) 

T TERE,  while  the  tide  of  conquest  rolls 

•I-    •*■     Against  the  distant  golden  shore. 
The  starved  and  stunted  human  souls 
Are  with  us  more  and  more. 

Vain  is  your  Science,  vain  your  Art, 
Your  triumphs  and  your  glories  vain, 

To  feed  the  hunger  of  their  heart 
And  famine  of  their  brain. 

Your  savage  deserts  howling  near. 

Your  wastes  of  ignorance,  vice,  and  shame, — 

Is  there  no  room  for  victories  here, 
No  fields  for  deeds  of  fame? 

Arise  and  conquer  while  ye  can 

The  foe  that  in  your  midst  resides, 
And  build  within  the  mind  of  Man 

The  Empire  that  abides. 


Country  615 

By  G.  Lowes  Dickinson 
(See  page  510) 

T  IKE  the  prince  in  the  fable,  you  seem  to  have  re- 
'-^  leased  from  his  prison  the  genie  of  competition,  only 
to  find  that  you  are  imable  to  control  him.  Your  legis- 
lation for  the  past  hundred  years  is  a  perpetual  and 
fruitless  effort  to  regulate  the  disorders  of  your  economic 
system.  Your  poor,  your  drunk,  your  incompetent,  your 
aged,  ride  you  like  a  nightmare.  You  have  dissolved 
all  human  and  personal  ties,  and  you  endeavor,  in  vain, 
to  replace  them  by  the  impersonal  activity  of  the  State. 
The  salient  characteristic  of  your  civilization  is  its  irre- 
sponsibility. You  have  liberated  forces  you  cannot  con- 
trol; you  are  caught  yourselves  in  your  own  levers  and 
cogs.  In  every  department  of  business  you  are  sub- 
stituting for  the  individual  the  company,  for  the  work- 
man the  tool.  The  making  of  dividends  is  a  xiniversal 
preoccupation;  the  well-being  of  the  laborer  is  no  one's 
concern  but  the  State's.  And  this  concern  even  the 
State  is  incompetent  to  undertake,  for  the  factors  by 
which  it  is  determined  are  beyond  its  control.  You 
depend  on  variations  of  supply  and  demand  which  you 
can  neither  determine  nor  anticipate.  The  failure  of  a 
harvest,  the  modification  of  a  tariff  in  some  remote  coun- 
try, dislocates  the  industry  of  millions,  thousands  of  miles 
away.  You  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  prospector's  luck,  an 
inventor's  genius,  a  woman's  caprice — nay,  you  are  at 
the  mercy  of  your  own  instruments.  Your  capital  is 
alive,  and  cries  for  food;  starve  it  and  it  turns  and 
throttles  you.     You  produce,  not  because  you  will,  but 


616  The    Cry   for    Justice 

because  you  must;  you  consume,  not  what  you  choose, 
but  what  is  forced  upon  you.  Never  was  any  trade  sa 
bound  as  this  which  you  caU  free;  but  it  is  bound,  not 
by  a  reasonable  will,  but  by  the  acciunulated  irrationality 
of  caprice. 


Utopia 

By  Sir  Thomas  More 
(See  pages  160,  490) 

WHEN  I  consider  and  way  in  my  mind  all  these 
common  wealthes,  which  now  a  dayes  any  where 
do  florish,  so  god  helpe  me,  I  can  perceave  nothing  but 
a  certain  conspiracy  of  riche  men  procuringe  theire  owne 
commodities  under  the  name  and  title  of  the  commen 
•  wealth.  They  invent  and  devise  all  meanes  and  craftes, 
first  how  to  kepe  safely,  without  feare  of  losing,  that  they 
have  unjustly  gathered  together,  and  next  how  to  hire 
and  abuse  the  worke  and  laboure  of  the  poore  for  as 
litle  money  as  may  be.  These  devises,  when  the  riche 
men  have  decreed  to  be  kept  and  observed  under  coloure 
of  the  comminaltie,  that  is  to  saye,  also  of  the  pore  people, 
then  they  be  made  lawes.  But  these  most  wicked  and 
vicious  men,  when  they  have  by  their  unsatiable  covet- 
ousnes  devided  among  them  selves  al  those  thinges, 
whiche  woulde  have  sufficed  all  men,  yet  how  farre  be 
they  from  the  welth  and  felicitie  of  the  Utopian  commen 
wealth? 


Country  617 

'?EaIe0  ot  %'iao  CountrteiS 

By  Maxim  Goeky 

(A  volume  of  short  stories  representing  the  later  work  of  the 
Russian  novelist,  the  fruit  of  his  sojourn  in  Capri.  It  is  interesting 
to  note  how  this  change  of  environment  altered  not  merely  his  point 
of  view,  but  even  his  literary  style.  The  following  narrative  has  the 
clarity  and  delicacy  of  the  best  French  prose.  It  is  the  story  of  an 
Itahan  workingman) 

*  *  T  WAS  born  naked  and  stupid,  like  you  and  every- 
•'■  body  else;  in  my  youth  I  dreamed  of  a  rich  wife; 
when  I  was  a  soldier  I  studied  in  order  to  pass  the  exami- 
nation for  an  officer's  rank.  I  was  twenty-three  when 
I  felt  that  all  was  not  as  it  should  be  in  this  world,  and 
that  it  was  a  shame  to  live  as  if  it  were.  .  .  . 

"We,  our  whole  regiment,  were  sent  to  Bologna.  The 
peasantry  there  were  in  revolt,  some  demanding  that 
the  rent  of  land  should  be  lowered,  others  shouting  about 
the  necessity  for  raising  wages:  both  parties  seemed  to 
be  in  the  wrong.  'To  lower  rents  and  increase  wages, 
what  nonsense!'  thought  I.  'That  would  ruin  the  land- 
owners.' To  me,  who  was  a  town-dweller,  it  seemed 
utter  foolishness.  I  was  very  indignant — the  heat  helped 
to  make  one  so,  and  the  constant  travelling  from  place 
to  place  and  the  mounting  guard  at  night.  For,  you 
know,  these  fine  fellows  were  breaking  the  machinery 
belonging  to  the  landowners;  and  it  pleased  them  to 
burn  the  com  and  to  try  to  spoil  everything  that  did  not 
belong  to  them.     Just  think  of  it!" 

He  sipped  his  wine  and,  becoming  more  animated, 
went  on:  "They  roamed  about  the  fields  in  droves  like 
sheep,  always  silently,  and  as  if  they  meant  business. 
We  used  to  scatter  them,  threatening  them  with  our 


618  The    Cry   jor    Justice 

bayonets  sometimes.  Now  and  then  we  struck  them 
with  the  butts  of  our  rifles.  Without  showing  much 
fear,  they  dispersed  in  leisurely  fashion,  but  always  came 
together  again.  It  was  a  tedious  business,  like  mass, 
and  it  lasted  for  days,  like  an  attack  of  fever.  Luoto, 
our  non-commissioned  officer,  a  fine  fellow  from  Abruzzi, 
himself  a  peasant,  was  anxious  and  troubled:  he  turned 
quite  yellow  and  thin,  and  more  than  once  he  said  to  us: 

"  'It's  a  bad  business,  boys;  it  will  probably  be  neces- 
sary to  shoot,  damn  it!' 

"His  grumbling  upset  us  still  more;  and  then,  you 
know,  from  every  corner,  from  every  hillock  and  tree  we 
could  see  peeping  the  obstinate  heads  of  the  peasants; 
their  angry  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  us.  For  these  people, 
naturally  enough,  did  not  regard  us  in  a  very  friendly 
light.  .  .  . 

"Once  I  stood  on  a  small  hillock  near  an  olive  grove, 
guarding  some  trees  which  the  peasants  had  been  injuring. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  two  men  were  at  work,  an  old 
man  and  a  youth.  They  were  digging  a  ditch.  It  was 
very  hot,  the  sun  burnt  like  fire,  one  felt  irritable,  longed 
to  be  a  fish,  and  I  remember  I  eyed  them  angrily.  At 
noon  they  both  left  off  work,  and  got  out  some  bread  and 
cheese  and  a  jug  of  wine.  '  Oh,  devil  take  them !'  thought 
I  to  myself.  Suddenly  the  old  man,  who  previously  had 
not  once  looked  at  me,  said  something  to  the  youth,  who 
shook  his  head  disapprovingly,  but  the  old  man  shouted: 
'Go  on!'     He  said  this  very  sternly. 

"The  youth  came  up  to  me  with  the  jug  in  his  hand, 
and  said,  not  very  willingly,  you  know:  'My  father 
thinks  that  you  would  like  a  drink  and  offers  you  some 
wine.' 

I  felt  embarrassed,   but  I  was  pleased.      I  refused, 


Country  619 

nodding  at  the  same  time  to  the  old  man  and  thanking 
him.  He  responded  by  looking  at  the  sky.  'Drink  it, 
signer,  druik  it.  We  offer  this  to  you  as  a  man,  not 
as  a  soldier.  We  do  not  expect  a  soldier  to  become  kinder 
because  he  has  drunk  our  wine!' 

"  'D — you,  don't  get  nasty,'  I  thought  to  myself,  and 
having  drunk  about  three  mouthfuls  I  thanked  him. 
Then  they  began  to  eat  down  below.  A  little  later  I 
was  relieved  by  Ugo  from  Salertino.  I  told  him  quietly 
that  these  two  peasants  were  good  fellows.  The  same 
night,  as  I  stood  at  the  door  of  a  bam  where  the  machin- 
ery was  kept,  a  slate  fell  on  my  head  from  the  roof.  It 
did  not  do  much  damage,  but  another  slate,  striking  my 
shoulder  edgewise,  hurt  me  so  severely  that  my  left  arm 
dropped  benumbed." 

The  speaker  biu-st  into  a  loud  laugh,  his  mouth  wide 
open,  his  eyes  half-closed.  "Slates,  stones,  sticks,"  said 
he,  through  his  laughter,  "in  those  days  and  at  that  place 
were  alive.  This  independent  action  of  Hfeless  things 
made  some  pretty  big  bimaps  on  our  heads.  Wherever 
a  soldier  stood  or  walked,  a  stick  would  suddenly  fly 
at  him  from  the  ground,  or  a  stone  fall  upon  him  from 
the  sky.     It  made  us  savage,  as  you  can  guess." 

The  eyes  of  his  companion  became  sad,  his  face  turned 
pale  and  he  said  quietly:  "One  always  feels  ashamed  to 
hear  of  such  things." 

"What  is  one  to  do?  People  take  time  to  get  wise. 
Then  I  called  for  help.  I  was  led  into  a  house  where 
another  fellow  lay,  his  face  cut  by  a  stone.  When  I 
asked  him  how  it  happened  he  said,  smiling,  but  not 
with  mirth: 

"  'An  old  woman,  comrade,  an  old  gray  witch  struck 
me,  and  then  proposed  that  I  should  kill  her!' 


620  The    Cry   for    Justice 

"  'Was  she  arrested?' 

"  'I  said  that  I  had  done  it  myself,  that  I  had  fallen 
and  hurt  myself.  The  commander  did  not  believe  it, 
I  could  see  it  by  his  eyes.  But,  don't  you  see,  it  was 
awkward  to  confess  that  I  had  been  wounded  by  an  old 
woman.  Eh?  The  devil!  Of  course  they  are  hard 
pressed,  and  one  can  understand  that  they  do  not  love 
us!' 

"  'H'm!'  thought  I.  The  doctor  came  and  two  ladies 
with  him,  one  of  them  fair  and  very  pretty,  evidently 
a  Venetian.  I  don't  remember  the  other.  They  looked 
at  my  wound.  It  was  slight,  of  course.  They  applied 
a  poultice  and  went  away.  .  .  . 

"My  comrade  and  I  used  to  sit  at  the  window.  We 
sat  in  such  a  way  that  the  light  did  not  fall  on  us,  and 
there  once  we  heard  the  charming  voice  of  this  fair  lady. 
She  and  her  companion  were  walking  with  the  doctor  in 
the  garden  outside  the  window  and  talking  in  French, 
which  I  understand  very  well. 

"  'Did  you  notice  the  color  of  his  eyes?'  she  asked. 
'He  is  a  peasant  of  course,  and  once  he  has  taken  off  his 
uniform  will  no  doubt  become  a  Socialist,  like  all  of 
them  here.  People  with  eyes  like  that  want  to  conquer 
the  whole  of  life,  to  drive  us  out,  to  destroy  us  in  order 
that  some  blind,  tedious  justice  should  triumph!' 

"  'Foolish  fellows,'  said  the  doctor — 'half  children, 
half  brutes.' 

"  '  Brutes,  that  is  quite  true.  But  what  is  there 
childish  about  them?' 

"  'What  about  those  dreams  of  universal  equality?' 

"  'Yes,  just  imagine  it.  The  fellow  with  the  eyes  of 
an  ox,  and  the  other  with  the  face  of  a  bird — our  equals! 
You  and  I  their  equals,  the  equals  of  these  people  of  in- 


Country  621 

ferior  blood!     People  who  can  be  bidden  to  come  and 
kill  their  fellows,  brutes  like  them.'  .  .  . 

"She  spoke  much  and  vehemently.  I  listened  and 
thought:  'Quite  right,  signora.'  I  had  seen  her  more 
than  once;  and  you  know,  of  course,  that  no  one  dreams 
more  ardently  of  a  woman  than  a  soldier.  I  imagined 
her  to  be  kind  and  clever  and  warm-hearted;  and  at  that 
time  I  had  an  idea  that  the  landed  nobility  were  especially 
clever,  or  gifted,  or  something  of  the  kind.  I  don't 
know  why! 

"I  asked  my  comrade:  'Do  you  understand  this 
language?' 

"No,  he  did  not  understand.  Then  I  translated  for 
him  the  fair  lady's  speech.  The  fellow  got  as  angry  as 
the  devil,  and  started  to  jump  about  the  room,  his  one 
eye  glistening — the  other  was  bandaged. 

"  'Is  that  so?'  he  murmured.  'Is  that  possible?  She 
makes  use  of  me  and  does  not  look  upon  me  as  a  man. 
For  her  sake  I  allow  my  dignity  to  be  offended  and  she 
denies  it.  For  the  sake  of  guarding  her  property  I  risk 
losing  my  soul.' 

"He  was  not  a  fool  and  felt  that  he  had  been  very 
much  insulted,  and  so  did  I.  The  following  day  we 
talked  about  this  lady  in  a  loud  voice,  not  heeding  Luoto, 
who  only  muttered: 

"  'Be  careful,  boys;  don't  forget  that  you  are  soldiers, 
and  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  discipline.' 

"No,  we  did  not  forget  it.  But  many  of  us,  almost 
all,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  became  deaf  and  blind,  and 
these  young  peasants  made  use  of  our  deafness  and  blind- 
ness to  very  good  purpose.  They  won.  They  treated 
us  very  well  indeed.  The  fair  lady  could  have  learnt 
from  them:    for  instance,  they  could  have  taught  her 


The    Cry   for    Justice 


very  convincingly  how  honest  people  should  be  valued. 
When  we  left  the  place  whither  we  had  come  with  the 
idea  of  shedding  blood,  many  of  us  were  given  flowers. 
As  we  marched  along  the  streets  of  the  village,  not  stones 
and  slates  but  flowers  were  thrown  at  us,  my  friend.  I 
think  we  had  deserved  it.  One  may  forget  a  cool  recep- 
tion when  one  has  received  such  a  good  send-off." 


'arSr  IRigfitiS  of  93an 

By  Thomas  Paine 

(English  radical  writer,  who  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  American 
and  French  revolutions;  1737-1809) 

I  "HE  superstitious  awe,  the  enslaving  reverence,  that 
-"■  formerly  surrounded  affluence,  is  passing  away  in 
all  countries,  and  leaving  the  possessor  of  property  to 
the  convulsion  of  accidents.  When  wealth  and  splendor, 
instead  of  fascinating  the  multitude,  excite  emotions  of 
disgust;  when,  instead  of  drawing  forth  admiration,  it 
is  beheld  as  an  insult  upon  wretchedness;  when  the 
ostentatious  appearance  it  makes  serves  to  call  the  right 
of  it  in  question,  the  case  of  property  becomes  critical, 
and  it  is  only  in  a  system  of  justice  that  the  possessor 
can  contemplate  security. 

By  Otto  von  Bismarck 

(German  statesman,  1815-1898) 

T  BELIEVE  that  those  who  profess  horror  at  the  inter- 

■'■  vention  of  the  state  for  the  protection  of  the  weak  lay 

themselves  open  to  the  suspicion  that  they  are  desirous 

of  using  their  strength  for  the  benefit  of  a  portion,  for 

the  oppression  of  the  rest. 


Country 


^^t  SD^mana  ot  Eabor 

By  Abraham  Lincoln 

(President  of  the  United  States;  1809-1865.  A  frequently  quoted 
passage  attributed  to  Lincoln,  prophesying  the  developments  of 
modern  capitalist  industry,  has  been  proven  to  be  spurious.  It 
therefore  seems  worth  stating  that  the  passages  quoted  in  this 
volume  have  been  duly  verified) 

INASMUCH  as  most  good  things  are  produced  by 
-*■  labor,  it  follows  that  all  such  things  ought  to  belong 
to  those  whose  labor  has  produced  them.  But  it  has 
happened  in  all  ages  of  the  world  that  some  have  labored, 
and  others,  without  labor,  have  enjoyed  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  fruits.  This  is  wrong,  and  should  not 
continue.  To  secure  to  each  laborer  the  whole  product 
of  his  labor  as  nearly  as  possible  is  a  worthy  object  of 
any  good  government. 


(From  the  New  York  "Tribune") 

(The  following  passage  is  given  space  as  a  curiosity  of  the  class- 
struggle,  and  by  way  of  encouragement  to  social  reformers  who  may 
suffer  under  the  lash  of  capitalist  abuse.  It  is  from  an  editorial 
published  in  one  of  New  York  City's  most  conservative  and 
respectable  journals  on  the  day  after  the  presidential  election  of 
1896;  its  subject  is  the  Hon.  William  Jennings  Bryan,  now  a  con- 
servative and  plodding  Secretary  of  State) 

THE  thing  was  conceived  in  iniquity  and  was  brought 
forth  in  sin.  It  had  its  origin  in  a  mahcious  con- 
spiracy against  the  honor  and  integrity  of  the  nation. 
It  gained  such  monstrous  growth  as  it  enjoyed  from  an 


624  The    Cry   for    Justice 

assiduous  culture  of  the  basest  passions  of  the  least 
worthy  members  of  the  community.  It  has  been  de- 
feated and  destroyed  because  right  is  right  and  God  is 
God.  Its  nominal  head  was  worthy  of  the  cause.  Nom- 
inal, because  the  wretched,  rattle-pated  boy,  posing  in 
vapid  vanity  and  mouthing  resounding  rottenness,  was 
not  the  real  leader  of  that  league  of  hell.  He  was  only 
a  puppet  in  the  blood-imbued  hands  of  Altgeld,  the 
anarchist,  and  Debs,  the  revolutionist,  and  other  des- 
peradoes of  that  stripe.  But  he  was  a  willing  puppet, 
Bryan  was— wilUng  and  eager.  Not  one  of  his  masters 
was  more  apt  than  he  at  lies  and  forgeries  and  blas- 
phemies and  all  the  nameless  iniquities  of  that  campaign 
against  the  Ten  Commandments.  He  goes  down  with 
the  cause,  and  must  abide  with  it  in  the  history  of  infamy. 
He  had  less  provocation  than  Benedict  Arnold,  less  intel- 
lectual force  than  Aaron  Burr,  less  manliness  and  courage 
than  Jefferson  Davis.  He  was  the  rival  of  them  all  in 
deliberate  wickedness  and  treason  to  the  Republic.  His 
name  belongs  with  theirs,  neither  the  most  brilliant  nor 
the  most  hateful  of  the  list.  Good  riddance  to  it  all, 
to  conspiracy  and  conspirators,  and  to  the  foul  menace 
of  repudiation  and  anarchy  against  the  honor  and  life 
of  the  Republic! 


By  Ferdinand  Lassalle 
(German  Socialist  leader;  1825-1864) 

IT  is  the  opposition  of  the  personal  interest  of  the 
higher  classes  to  the  development  of  the  nation  in 
culture,  which  causes  the  great  and  necessary  immorality 
of  the  higher  classes. 


n 


ountry  625 

^^t  T^^w^"^  miner 

By  Bliss  Carman 

(American  poet  of  nature,  born  1861) 

T~*AKE  up,  who  will,  the  challenge; 
■»■      Stand  pat  on  graft  and  greed; 
Grow  sleek  on  others'  labor, 

Surfeit  on  others'  need; 
Let  paid  and  bloodless  tricksters 

Devise  a  legal  way 
Our  common  right  and  justice  , 

"Tosell,  deny,  delay." 


Not  yesterday  nor  lightly 

We  came  to  know  that  breed; 
Our  quarrel  with  that  cunning 

Is  old  as  RunnjTiiede. 
We  saw  enfranchised  insult 

Deploy  in  kingly  line, 
When  broke  our  sullen  fury 

On  Rupert  of  the  Rhine.  .  .  . 


Now,  masking  raid  and  rapine 

In  debonair  disguise. 
The  foe  we  thought  defeated 

Deludes  our  careless  ej-es, 
Entrenched  in  law  and  largess 

And  the  vested  wrong  of  things, 
Cloaking  a  fouler  treason 

Than  any  faithless  king's. 

40 


626  The    Cry   for    Justice 

He  takes  our  life  for  wages, 

He  holds  our  land  for  rent, 
He  sweats  our  little  children 

To  swell  his  cent  per  cent; 
With  secret  grip  and  levy 

On  every  crumb  we  eat. 
He  drives  our  sons  to  thieving, 

Our  daughters  to  the  street.  .  .  . 

Against  the  grim  defenses 

Where  might  and  murrain  hide, 
Unswerving  to  the  issue 

Loose-reined  and  rough  we  ride 
Full  tardily,  to  rescue 

Our  heritage  from  wrong. 
And  stablish  it  on  manhood, 

A  thousand  times  more  strong. 


By  William  Ewart  Gladstone 
(English  liberal  statesman,  1809-1898) 

T  N  almost  every  one,  if  not  in  every  one,  of  the  greatest 
-'•  political  controversies  of  the  last  fifty  years,  whether 
they  affected  the  franchise,  whether  they  affected  com- 
merce, whether  they  affected  religion,  whether  they 
affected  the  bad  and  abominable  institution  of  slavery, 
or  what  subject  they  touched,  these  leisured  classes, 
these  educated  classes,  these  titled  classes,  have  been  in 
the  wrong. 


C  ountry  627 

By  Octave  Mirbeau 

(Celebrated  French  man-of-letters,  bom  1850.  A  play,  first 
produced  in  1897,  with  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  the  leading  role,  pre- 
senting the  class-struggle  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  anti-parlia- 
mentarian. At  the  height  of  a  desperate  strike  of  steel-workers, 
the  leader  of  the  strikers  is  addressing  a  secret  gathering  in  a  forest, 
near  a  religious  shrine) 

JEAN: — You  reproach  me — and  this  is  the  worst 
charge  you  bring  against  me — that  I  refused  the 
meeting  with  the  radical  and  soci